University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
MR.  SHELDON  CHENEY 


CQ 


LUSTRA 

0/Ezra    Pound 

with    Earlier    Poems 


For  Private  Circulation 

Sixty  Copies  Printed.     New  York,  October  1917. 
This  is  Number 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
EZRA  POUND 

Published  Otttbir,  1911 


FEINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OP   AMEBICA 


Vail  de  Lencour 
Cui  dono  kpidum  novum  libellum. 


CONTENTS 


Tenzone  13 
The  Condolence  14 
The  Garret  15 
The  Garden  16 
Ortus  1 6 
Salutation  17 
Salutation  the  Second  18 
The  Spring  20 
Albatre  20 
Causa  21 
Commission  21 
A  Pact  23 
Surgit  Fama  24 
Preference  25 
Dance  Figure  25 
April  27 
Gentildonna  27 
The  Rest  28 
Les  Milwin  29 
Further  Instructions  30 
A  Song  of  the  Degrees  31 
Itc  32 

Dum  Capitolium  Scandet  32 
To  Ka\bv  33 

The  Study  in  Aesthetics  33 
The  Bellaires  34 
The  New  Cake  of  Soap  36 
Salvationists  37 
Epitaph  38 
Arides  38 
The  Bath  Tub  38 
Amities  39 
-Meditatio  40 
To  Dives  41 
Ladies  41 


Phyllidula  42 

The  Patterns  43 

Coda  43 

The  Seeing  Eye  43 

Ancora  44 

"  Dompna     pois     de     me     no'us 

cal"45 
The   Coming  of   War:   Actaeon 

48 

After  Ch'u   Yuan  49 
Liu  Ch'e  49 
Fan-piece,     for     her     Imperial 

Lord  50 
Ts'ai  Chi'h  50 

In  a  Station  of  the  Metro  50 
Alba  51 
Heather  51 
The  Faun  51 
Coitus  52 

The  Encounter  52 
Tempora  53 

Black   Slippers:  Bellotti  53 
Society  54 

Image  from  D'Orleans  54 
Papyrus  55 
"lone,    Dead    the    Long    Year" 

55 

Shop  Girl  56 
To     Formianus'     Young     Lady 

Friend  56 
Tame  Cat  57 
L'Art,  1910  57 
Simulacra  58 

Women  Before  a  Shop  58 
Epilogue  58 


The  Social  Order  59 
The  Tea  Shop  60 
Ancient  Music  61 
The  Lake  Isle  61 
Epitaphs  62 
Our  Contemporaries  63 


Ancient    Wisdom,    Rather    Cos- 
mic 63 

The  Three  Poets  64 
The  Gipsy  64 
The  Game  of  Chess  65 
Provincia  Deserta  66 


CATHAY 


Song  of  the  Bowmen  of  Shu  73 

The  Beautiful  Toilet  74 

The  River  Song  75 

The  River-Merchant's  Wife:  A 
Letter  77 

The  Jewel  Stairs'  Grievance  79 

Poem    by    the    Bridge    at    Ten- 
Shin  80 

Lament   of   the   Frontier   Guard 
Si 

Exile's  Letter  83 

Four  Poems  of  Departure 

Separation    on   the   River   Ki- 

ang  87 

Taking  Leave  of  a  Friend  88 
Leave-taking   near    Shoku  88 
The  City  of  Choan  89 

South-Folk   in    Cold    Country  89 

Sennin  Poem  by  Kakuhaku  90 


A  Ballad  of  the  Mulberry  Road 

Old   Idea   of   Choan  by  Rosoriu 

92 
To-Em-Mei's    "  The    Unmoving 

Cloud"  94 
Near  Perigord  96 
Villanelle:     The     Psychological 

Hour  105 
Dans    un    Omnibus    de    Londres 

107 

Pagani's,   November  8  109 
To   a   Friend  Writing  on   Cab- 
aret Dancers  109 
Homage    to    Quintus    Septimius 

Florentis  Christianus  114 
Fish  and  the  Shadow  116 
Impressions    of    Frangois-Marie 

Arouet   (De  Voltaire)    117 
The  Temperaments  120 


POEMS  PUBLISHED  BEFORE  1911 


In  Durance  123 

Piere  Vidol  Old  125 

Prayer  for  His  Lady's  Life  129 

"Blandula,    Tenulla,     Vagula " 

130 

Erat  Hora  130 
The  Sea  of  Glass  131 
Rome  131 
Her  Monument,  The  Image  Cut 

Thereon  132 
Housman's  Message  to  Mankind 

135 


Translations  from  Heine  135 

Extra  poem  from  Heine  42 

Und  Drang  141 

Ripostes  152 

In  Exitum  Cuiusdam  153 

Apparuit  154 

The  Tomb  at  Akr  Caar  155 

Portrait  d'une  Femme  157 

New  York  158 

A  Girl  159 

"Phasellus  Ille  "  159 

An  Object  160 


uies  161 

The  Seafarer  161 
The  Cloak  165 
An  Immorality  166 
Dieu!     Qu'il  la  fait  167 
Salve  Pontifex  167 
Awpia  172 
The  Needle  172 

THREE  CANTOS 
Three    Cantos    of    a    Poem    of     Some  Length  180 


Sub  Mare  173 

Plunge  174 

A  Virginal  175 

Pan  Is  Dead  175 

The  Picture  176 

Of  Jacopo  del  Sellaio  177 

The  Return  177 


LUSTRA  OF  EZRA  POUND 


TENZONE 

Will  people  accept  them? 

(i.e.  these  songs). 
As  a  timorous  wench  from  a  centaur 

(or  a  centurion), 
Already  they  flee,  howling  in  terror. 


Will  they  be  touched  with  the  verisimilitudes? 

Their  virgin  stupidity  is  untemptable. 
I  beg  you,  my  friendly  critics, 
Do  not  set  about  to  procure  me  an  audience. 


I  mate  with  my  free  kind  upon  the  crags; 

the  hidden  recesses 
Have  heard  the  echo  of  my  heels, 

in  the  cool  light, 

in  the  darkness. 


THE  CONDOLENCE 

A  mis  soledades  voy, 
De  mis  soledades  vengo, 
Porque  por  andar  conmigo 
Mi  bastan  mis  pensamientos. 
Lope  de  Vega. 

O  my  fellow  sufferers,  songs  of  my  youth, 
A  lot  of  asses  praise  you  because  you  are  "  virile," 
We,  you,  I !     We  are  "  Red  Bloods  "  1 
Imagine  it,  my  fellow  sufferers  — 
Our  maleness  lifts  us  out  of  the  ruck, 
Who'd  have  foreseen  it? 


O  my  fellow  sufferers,  we  went  out  under  the  trees, 
We  were  in  especial  bored  with  male  stupidity. 
We  went  forth  gathering  delicate  thoughts, 
Our  "  fantastikon  "  delighted  to  serve  us. 
We  were  not  exasperated  with  women, 
for  the  female  is  ductile. 


And  now  you  hear  what  is  said  to  us: 
We  are  compared  to  that  sort  of  person 
Who  wanders  about  announcing  his  sex 


As  if  he  had  just  discovered  it. 

Let  us  leave  this  matter,  my  songs, 

and  return  to  that  which  concerns  us. 


THE  GARRET 

Come,  let  us  pity  those  who  are  better  off  than  we 

are. 
Come,  my  friend,  and  remember 

that  the  rich  have  butlers  and  no  friends, 
And  we  have  friends  and  no  butlers. 
Come,  let  us  pity  the  married  and  the  unmarried. 

Dawn  enters  with  little  feet 

like  a  gilded  Pavlova, 
And  I  am  near  my  desire. 
Nor  has  life  in  it  aught  better 
Than  this  hour  of  clear  coolness, 

the  hour  of  waking  together. 


THE  GARDEN 

En    robe    de    parade. 

Samain 

Like  a  skein  of  loose  silk  blown  against  a  wall 

She  walks  by  the  railing  of  a  path  in  Kensington 

Gardens, 
And  she  is  dying  piece-meal 

of  a  sort  of  emotional  anaemia. 

And  round  about  there  is  a  rabble 

Of    the    filthy,    sturdy,    unkillable    infants    of 

very  poor. 
They  shall  inherit  the  earth. 

In  her  is  the  end  of  breeding. 
Her  boredom  is  exquisite  and  excessive. 
She  would  like  some  one  to  speak  to  her, 
And  is  almost  afraid  that  I 

will  commit  that  indiscretion. 


ORTUS 

How  have  I  laboured? 

How  have  I  not  laboured 

To  bring  her  soul  to  birth, 

To  give  these  elements  a  name  and  a  centre  I 


16 


She  is  beautiful  as  the  sunlight,  and  as  fluid. 

She  has  no  name,  and  no  place. 

How  have  I  laboured  to  bring  her  soul  into 

separation; 
To  give  her  a  name  and  her  being! 

Surely  you  are  bound  and  entwined, 

You  are  mingled  with  the  elements  unborn; 

I  have  loved  a  stream  and  a  shadow. 

I  beseech  you  enter  your  life. 

I  beseech  you  learn  to  say  "  I  " 

When  I  question  you : 

For  you  are  no  part,  but  a  whole; 

No  portion,  but  a  being. 


SALUTATION 

0  generation  of  the  thoroughly  smug 

and  thoroughly  uncomfortable, 

1  have  seen  fishermen  picnicking  in  the  sun, 
I  have  seen  them  with  untidy  families, 

I  have  seen  their  smiles  full  of  teeth 
and  heard  ungainly  laughter. 


And  I  am  happier  than  you  are, 
And  they  were  happier  than  I  am ; 
And  the  fish  swim  in  the  lake 

and  do  not  even  own  clothing. 


SALUTATION  THE  SECOND 

You  were  praised,  my  books, 

because  I  had  just  come  from  the  country; 
I  was  twenty  years  behind  the  times 

so  you  found  an  audience  ready. 
I  do  not  disown  you, 

do  not  you  disown  your  progeny. 

Here  they  stand  without  quaint  devices, 

Here  they  are  with  nothing  archaic  about  them. 

Watch  the  reporters  spit, 

Watch  the  anger  of  the  professors, 

Watch  how  the  pretty  ladies  revile  them : 

"  Is  this,"  they  say,  "  the  nonsense 

that  we  expect  of  poets?  " 
"  Where  is  the  Picturesque?  " 

"  Where  is  the  vertigo  of  emotion?  " 
"  No !  his  first  work  was  the  best." 

"  Poor  Dear!  he  has  lost  his  illusions." 


18 


Go,  little  naked  and  impudent  songs, 

Go  with  a  light  foot ! 

(Or  with  two  light  feet,  if  it  please  you !) 

Go  and  dance  shamelessly! 

Go  with  an  impertinent  frolic ! 

Greet  the  grave  and  the  stodgy, 

Salute  them  with  your  thumbs  at  your  noses. 

Here  are  your  bells  and  confetti. 
Go!  rejuvenate  things! 
Rejuvenate  even  "  The  Spectator." 

Go !  and  make  cat  calls ! 
Dance  and  make  people  blush, 
Dance  the  dance  of  the  phallus 

and  tell  anecdotes  of  Cybele ! 
Speak  of  the  indecorous  conduct  of  the  Gods ! 

(Tell  it  to  Mr.   Strachey) 

Ruffle  the  skirts  of  prudes, 

speak  of  their  knees  and  ankles. 
But,  above  all,  go  to  practical  people  — 

5  go!  jangle  their  door-bells! 

ay  that  you  do  no  work 

and  that  you  will  live  forever. 


THE  SPRING 

Cydonian  Spring  with  her  attendant  train, 

Meliads  and  water-girls. 

Stepping  beneath  a  boisterous  wind  from  Thrace, 

Throughout  this  sylvan  place 

Spreads  the  bright  tips, 

And  every  vine-stock  is 

Clad  in  new  brilliancies. 

And  wild  desire 
Falls  like  black  lightning. 
O  bewildered  heart, 

Though  every  branch  have  back  what  last  year  lost, 
She,  who  moved  here  amid  the  cyclamen, 
Moves  only  now  a  clinging  tenuous  ghost. 


ALBATRE 

This  lady  in  the  white  bath-robe  which  she  calls  a 
peignoir 

Is,  for  the  time  being,  the  mistress  of  my  friend, 

And  the  delicate  white  feet  of  her  little  white  dog 

Are  not  more  delicate  than  she  is, 

Nor  would  Gautier  himself  have  despised  their  con- 
trasts in  whiteness 


20 


As  she  sits  in  the  great  chair 
Between  the  two  indolent  candles. 


CAUSA 

I  join  these  words  for  four  people, 
Some  others  may  overhear  them, 
O  world,  I  am  sorry  for  you, 
You  do  not  know  these  four  people. 


COMMISSION 


Go,  my  songs,  to  the  lonely  and  the  unsatisfied, 
Go  also  to  the  nerve-wracked,  go  to  the  enslaved- 

by-convention, 

Bear  to  them  my  contempt  for  their  oppressors. 
Go  as  a  great  wave  of  cool  water, 
Bear  my  contempt  of  oppressors. 

Speak  against  unconscious  oppression, 

Speak  against  the  tyranny  of  the  unimaginative, 

Speak  against  bonds. 


21 


Go  to  the  bourgeoise  who  is  dying  of  her  ennuis, 

Go  to  the  women  in  suburbs. 

Go  to  the  hideously  wedded, 

Go  to  them  whose  failure  is  concealed, 

Go  to  the  unluckily  mated, 

Go  to  the  bought  wife, 

Go  to  the  woman  entailed. 

Go  to  those  who  have  delicate  lust, 
Go  to  those  whose  delicate  desires  are  thwarted, 
Go  like  a  blight  upon  the  dulness  of  the  world; 
Go  with  your  edge  against  this, 
Strengthen  the  subtle  cords, 

Bring  confidence  upon  the  algae  and  the  tentacles 
of  the  soul. 

Go  in  a  friendly  manner, 

Go  with  an  open  speech. 

Be  eager  to  find  new  evils  and  new  good, 

Be  against  all  forms  of  oppression. 

Go  to  those  who  are  thickened  with  middle  age, 

To  those  who  have  lost  their  interest. 

Go  to  the  adolescent  who  are  smothered  in  family 
Oh  how  hideous  it  is 


22 


"o   see   three   generations   of  one   house  gathered 

together ! 

It  is  like  an  old  tree  with  shoots, 
And  with  some  branches  rotted  and  falling. 

Go  out  and  defy  opinion, 

Go  against  this  vegetable  bondage  of  the  blood. 

Be  against  all  sorts  of  mortmain. 


A  PACT 

I  make  a  pact  with  you,  Walt  Whitman 
I  have  detested  you  long  enough. 
I  come  to  you  as  a  grown  child 
Who  has  had  a  pig-headed  father; 
I  am  old  enough  now  to  make  friends. 
It  was  you  that  broke  the  new  wood, 
Now  is  a  time  for  carving. 
We  have  one  sap  and  one  root  — 
Let  there  be  commerce  between  us. 


SURGIT  FAMA 

There  is  a  truce  among  the  gods, 
Kore  is  seen  in  the  North 
Skirting  the  blue-gray  sea 
In  gilded  and  russet  mantle. 

The  corn  has  again  its  mother  and  she,  Leuconoe, 
That  failed  never  women, 
Fails  not  the  earth  now. 

The  tricksome  Hermes  is  here; 

He  moves  behind  me 

Eager  to  catch  my  words, 

Eager  to  spread  them  with  rumour; 

To  set  upon  them  his  change 

Crafty  and  subtle; 

To  alter  them  to  his  purpose ; 

But  do  thou  speak  true,  even  to  the  letter: 

"  Once    more    in    Delos,    once    more    is    the    altar 

a-quiver. 

Once  more  is  the  chant  heard. 
Once  more  are  the  never  abandoned  gardens 
Full  of  gossip  and  old  tales." 


PREFERENCE 


It  is  true  that  you  say  the  gods  are  more  use  to 

you  than  fairies, 
But  for  all  that  I  have  seen  you 

on  a  high,  white,  noble  horse, 
Like  some  strange  queen  in  a  story. 

It  is  odd  that  you  should  be  covered  with  long  robes 

and  trailing  tendrils  and  flowers; 
It  is  odd  that  you  should  be  changing  your  face 

and    resembling    some    other   woman    to 

plague  me; 

It  is  odd  that  you  should  be  hiding  yourself 
In    the    cloud    of    beautiful    women    who    do    not 
concern  me. 

And  I,  who  follow  every  seed-leaf  upon  the  wind? 
You  will  say  that  I  deserve  this. 


DANCE  FIGURE 

For  the  Marriage  in  Cana  of  Galilee 

Dark  eyed, 

O  woman  of  my  dreams, 

Ivory  sandaled, 


There  is  none  like  thee  among  the  dancers, 
None  with  swift  feet. 


I  have  not  found  thee  in  the  tents, 
In  the  broken  darkness. 
I  have  not  found  thee  at  the  well-head 
Among  the  women  with  pitchers. 

Thine  arms  are  as  a  young  sapling  under  the  bark; 
Thy  face  as  a  river  with  lights. 

White  as  an  almond  are  thy  shoulders; 
As  new  almonds  stripped  from  the  husk. 

They  guard  thee  not  with  eunuchs; 
Not  with  bars  of  copper. 

Gilt  turquoise  and  silver  are  in  the  place  of  thy  rest. 

A   brown    robe,    with   threads    of   gold   woven    in 

patterns, 

hast  thou  gathered  about  thee, 
O  Nathat-Ikanaie,   "  Tree-at-the-river." 

As  a  rillet  among  the  sedge  are  thy  hands  upon  me ; 
Thy  fingers  a  frosted  stream. 


26 


Thy  maidens  are  white  like  pebbles; 
Their  music  about  thee! 

There  is  none  like  thee  among  the  dancers  ; 
None  with  swift  feet. 


APRIL 


Nympharum   membra  disjecta 

Three  spirits  came  to  me 

And  drew  me  apart 

To  where  the  olive  boughs 

Lay  stripped  upon  the  ground: 

Pale  carnage  beneath  bright  mist. 


GENTILDONNA 

passed   and  left  no   quiver  in  the  veins,  who 

now 
Moving  among  the  trees,  and  clinging 

in  the  air  she  severed, 
Fanning  the  grass  she  walked  on  then,  endures: 

Grey  olive  leaves  beneath  a  rain-cold  sky. 

27 


THE  REST 

O  helpless  few  in  my  country, 

0  remnant  enslaved! 

Artists  broken  against  her, 
A-stray,  lost  in  the  villages, 
Mistrusted,  spoken-against, 

Lovers  of  beauty,  starved, 
Thwarted  with  systems, 
Helpless  against  the  control; 

You  who  can  not  wear  yourselves  out 

By  persisting  to  successes, 

You  who  can  only  speak, 

Who  can  not  steel  yourselves  into  reiteration; 

You  of  the  finer  sense, 
Broken  against  false  knowledge, 
You  who  can  know  at  first  hand, 
Hated,  shut  in,  mistrusted: 

Take  thought: 

1  have  weathered  the  storm, 
I  have  beaten  out  my  exile. 


28 


LES  MILLWIN 


The  little  Millwins  attend  the  Russian  Ballet. 
The  mauve  and  greenish  souls  of  the  little  Millwins 
Were  seen  lying  along  the  upper  seats 
Like  so  many  unused  boas. 


The     turbulent     and     undisciplined     host     of     art 

students  — 
The  rigorous  deputation  from  "  Slade  " — 
Was  before  them. 
With  arms  exalted,  with  fore-arms 
Crossed  in  great  futuristic  X's,  the  art  students 
Exulted,  they  beheld  the  splendours  of  Cleopatra. 

And  the  little  Millwins  beheld  these  things; 
With  their  large  and  ansemic  eyes  they  looked  out 
upon  this  configuration. 

,et  us  therefore  mention  the  fact, 
it  seems  to  us  worthy  of  record. 


FURTHER  INSTRUCTIONS 

Come,  my  songs,  let  us  express  our  baser  passions, 
Let  us  express  our  envy  of  the  man  with  a  steady 

job  and  no  worry  about  the  future. 
You  are  very  idle,  my  songs. 
I  fear  you  will  come  to  a  bad  end. 
You  stand  about  in  the  streets, 
You  loiter  at  the  corners  and  bus-stops, 
You  do  next  to  nothing  at  all. 


You  do  not  even  express  our  inner  nobilities, 
You  will  come  to  a  very  bad  end. 

And  I? 

I  have  gone  half  cracked, 

I  have  talked  to  you  so  much  that 

I  almost  see  you  about  me, 
Insolent  little  beasts,  shameless,  devoid  of  clothing! 

But  you,  newest  song  of  the  lot, 

You  are  not  old  enough  to  have  done  much  mischief, 

I  will  get  you  a  green  coat  out  of  China 

With  dragons  worked  upon  it, 


I  will  get  you  the  scarlet  silk  trousers 

From  the  statue  of  the  infant  Christ  at  Santa  Maria 

Novella, 

Lest  they  say  we  are  lacking  in  taste, 
Or  that  there  is  no  caste  in  this  family. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  DEGREES 
I 


Rest  me  with  Chinese  colours, 
For  I  think  the  glass  is  evil. 


The  i 


II 


wind  moves  above  the  wheat  — 
With  a  silver  crashing, 
A  thin  war  of  metal. 


I  have  known  the  golden  disc, 
I  have  seen  it  melting  above  me. 
have  known  the  stone-bright  place, 
The  hall  of  clear  colours. 


Ill 

O  glass  subtly  evil,  O  confusion  of  colours! 
O  light  bound  and  bent  in,  O  soul  of  the  captive, 
Why  am  I  warned?     Why  am  I  sent  away? 
Why  is  your  glitter  full  of  curious  mistrust? 
O  glass  subtle  and  cunning,  O  powdery  gold! 
O  filaments  of  amber,  two-faced  iridescence ! 


ITE 

Go,  my  songs,  seek  your  praise  from  the  young  and 

from  the  intolerant, 

Move  among  the  lovers  of  perfection  alone. 
Seek  ever  to  stand  in  the  hard  Sophoclean  light 
And  take  your  wounds  from  it  gladly. 


BUM  CAPITOLIUM  SCANDET 

How  many  will  come  after  me 

singing  as  well  as  I  sing,  none  better; 
Telling  the  heart  of  their  truth 

as  I  have  taught  them  to  tell  it; 
Fruit  of  my  seed, 

O  my  unnameable  children. 


Know  then  that  I  loved  you  from  afore-time, 
Clear  speakers,  naked  in  the  sun,  untrammelled. 


To  KaXbv 

Even  in  my  dreams  you   have   denied  yourself  to 

me 
And  sent  me  only  your  handmaids. 


Bu 


STUDY  IN  AESTHETICS 

he  very  small  children  in  patched  clothing, 
Being  smitten  with  an  unusual  wisdom, 
Stopped  in  their  play  as  she  passed  them 
And  cried  up  from  their  cobbles: 

Guarda!     A  hi,  guarda!  chy  e  be' a  */ 


ut  three  years  after  this 
I  heard  the  young  Dante,  whose  last  name  I  do  not 

know  — 

For    there    are,    in    Sirmione,    twenty-eight    young 
Dantes   and  thirty-four   Catulli; 

*  Bella. 

33 


And  there  had  been  a  great  catch  of  sardines, 

And  his  elders 

Were  packing  them  in  the  great  wooden  boxes 

For  the  market  in  Brescia,  and  he 

Leapt  about,  snatching  at  the  bright  fish 

And  getting  in  both  of  their  ways; 

And  in  vain  they  commanded  him  to  sta  fermo! 

And  when  they  would  not  let  him  arrange 

The  fish  in  the  boxes 

He  stroked  those  which  were  already  arranged, 

Murmuring  for  his  own  satisfaction 

This  identical  phrase : 

CW  e  be' a. 
And  at  this  I  was  mildly  abashed. 


THE  BELLAIRES 

Aus    meinen    grossen   Schmerzen 
Mack'  ich  die  kleinen  Lieder 

The  good  Bellaires 

Do    not   understand    the    conduct    of    this    world's 

affairs. 

In  fact  they  understood  them  so  badly 
That  they  have  had  to  cross  the  Channel. 


34 


Nine  lawyers,  four  counsels,  five  judges  and  three 
proctors  of  the  King, 

Together  with  the  respective  wives,  husbands,  sis- 
ters and  heterogeneous  connections  of  the  good 
Bellaires, 

Met  to  discuss  their  affairs; 

But  the  good  Bellaires  have '  so  little  understood 
their  affairs 

That  now  there  is  no  one  at  all 

Who  can  understand  any  affair  of  theirs.     Yet 

Fourteen  hunters  still  eat  in  the  stables  of 

The  good  Squire  Bellaire; 

But  these  may  not  suffer  attainder, 

For  they  may  not  belong  to  the  good  Squire 
Bellaire 

But  to  his  wife. 

On  the  contrary,  if  they  do  not  belong  to  his  wife, 

He  will  plead 

A  "  freedom  from  attainder  " 

For  twelve  horses  and  also  for  twelve  boarhounds 

From  Charles  the  Fourth; 

And  a  further  freedom  for  the  remainder 

Of  horses,  from  Henry  the  Fourth. 

But  the  judges, 

Being  free  of  mediaeval  scholarship, 

Will  pay  no  attention  to  this, 


35 


And  there  will  be  only  the  more  confusion, 
Replevin,  estoppel,  espavin  and  what  not. 

Nine  lawyers,  four  counsels,  etc., 
Met  to  discuss  their  affairs, 
But  the  sole  result  was  bills 
From  lawyers  to  whom  no  one  was  indebted, 
And  even  the  lawyers 
Were  uncertain  who  was  supposed  to  be  indebted 
to  them. 

Wherefore  the  good  Squire  Bellaire 
Resides  now  at  Agde  and  Biaucaire. 
To  Carcassonne,  Pui,  and  Alais 
He  fareth  from  day  to  day, 
Or  takes  the  sea  air 
Between  Marseilles 
And  Beziers. 

And  for  all  this  I  have  considerable  regret, 
For  the  good  Bellaires 
Are  very  charming  people. 

THE  NEW  CAKE  OF  SOAP 

Lo,  how  it  gleams  and  glistens  in  the  sun 
Like  the  cheek  of  a  Chesterton. 


SALVATIONISTS 

I 

Come,  my  songs,  let  us  speak  of  perfection  — 
We  shall  get  ourselves  rather  disliked. 

II 

Ah  yes,  my  songs,  let  us  resurrect 

The  very  excellent  term  Rusticus. 

Let  us  apply  it  in  all  its  opprobrium 

To  those  to  whom  it  applies. 

And  you  may  decline  to  make  them  immortal, 

For  we  shall  consider  them  and  their  state 

In  delicate 

Opulent  silence. 


Come,  mv 


III 


,ome,  my  songs, 
Let  us  take  arms  against  this  sea  of  stupidities 
Beginning  with  Mumpodorus ; 
And  against  this  sea  of  vulgarities  — 
Beginning  with  Nimmim; 
And  against  this  sea  of  imbeciles  — 
All  the  Bulmenian  literati. 


37 


EPITAPH 

Leucis,  who  intended  a  Grand  Passion, 
Ends  with  a  willingness-to-oblige. 


ARIDES 

The  bashful  Arides 

Has  married  an  ugly  wife, 

He  was  bored  with  his  manner  of  life, 

Indifferent  and  discouraged  he  thought  he  might  as 

Well  do  this  as  anything  else. 

Saying  within  his  heart,  "  I  am  no  use  to  myself, 
"  Let  her,  if  she  wants  me,  take  me." 
He  went  to  his  doom. 


THE  BATH  TUB 

As  a  bathtub  lined  with  white  porcelain, 
When  the  hot  water  gives  out  or  goes  tepid, 
So  is  the  slow  cooling  of  our  chivalrous  passion, 
O  my  much  praised  but-not-altogether-satisfactory 
lady. 


AMITIES 


Old  friends  the  most. 
W.   B.  Y. 


To  one,  on  returning  certain  years  after. 

You  wore  the  same  quite  correct  clothing, 
You  took  no  pleasure  at  all  in  my  triumphs, 
You  had  the  same  old  air  of  condescension 
Mingled  with  a  curious  fear 

That  I,  myself,  might  have  enjoyed  them. 


e  voila,   mon  Bourrienne,  you   also  shall  be  im- 
mortal. 


II 

To  another. 


And  we  say  good-bye,  to  you  also, 
For  you  seem  never  to  have  discovered 
That  your  relationship  is  wholly  parasitic; 
Yet  to  our  feasts  you  bring  neither 
Wit,  nor  good  spirits,  nor  the  pleasing  attitudes 
Of  discipleship. 


39 


Ill 

But  you,  bos  amic,  we  keep  on, 

For  to  you  we  owe  a  real  debt: 

In  spite  of  your  obvious  flaws, 

You  once  discovered  a  moderate  chop-house. 

IV 

Iste  fuit  vir  incultus, 

Deo  laus,  quod  est  sepultus, 

Fermes  habent  ems  vultum 

A-a-a-a  —  A-men. 
Ego  autem  jovialis 
Gaudero  contubernalis 
Cum  jocunda  femina. 


MEDITATIO 

When   I   carefully  consider  the   curious   habits   of 

dogs 

I  am  compelled  to  conclude 
That  man  is  the  superior  animal. 

When  I  consider  the  curious  habits  of  man 
I  confess,  my  friend,  I  am  puzzled. 


40 


TO  DIVES 

Who  am  I  to  condemn  you,  O  Dives, 
I  who  am  as  much  embittered 
With  poverty 
As  you  are  with  useless  riches? 


LADIES 

Agathas 

our    and    forty   lovers    had   Agathas    in    the    old 
days, 

11  of  whom  she  refused; 
And  now  she  turns  to  me  seeking  love, 
And  her  hair  also  is  turning. 


Young  Lady 

have  fed  your  lar  with  poppies, 
I  have  adored  you  for  three  full  years; 
And  now  you  grumble  because  your  dress  does  not 

fit 

And  because  I  happen  to  say  so. 


Lesbia  Ilia 

Memnon,  Memnon,  that  lady 

Who  used  to  walk  about  amongst  us 

With  such  gracious  uncertainty, 

Is  now  wedded 

To  a  British  householder. 

Lugete,  Venere!     Lugete,  Cupidinesque! 


Passing 

Flawless  as  Aphrodite, 

Thoroughly  beautiful, 

Brainless, 

The  faint  odour  of  your  patchouli, 

Faint,   almost,   as  the  lines  of  cruelty  about  your 

chin, 
Assails  me,  and  concerns  me  almost  as  little. 


PHYLLIDULA 

Phyllidula  is  scrawny  but  amorous, 

Thus  have  the  gods  awarded  her 

That  in  pleasure  she  receives  more  than  she  can  give ; 

If  she  does  not  count  this  blessed 

Let  her  change  her  religion. 


42 


THE  PATTERNS 

Erinna  is  a  model  parent, 

Her  children  have  never  discovered  her  adulteries. 

Lalage  is  also  a  model  parent, 

Her  offspring  are  fat  and  happy. 


CODA 

w  my  songs, 

Why  do  you  look  so  eagerly  and  so  curiously  into 

people's  faces, 
Will  you  find  your  lost  dead  among  them? 


THE  SEEING  EYE 

The  small  dogs  look  at  the  big  dogs; 
They  observe  unwieldly  dimensions 
And  curious  imperfections  of  odor. 


Here  is  a  formal  male  group: 

The  young  men  look  upon  their  seniors, 


43 


They  consider  the  elderly  mind 

And  observe  its  inexplicable  correlations. 

Said  Tsin-Tsu: 

It  is  only  in  small  dogs  and  the  young 

That  we  find  minute  observation. 


ANCORA 

Good  God!     They  say  you  are  risque, 

O  canzonetti ! 

We  who  went  out  into  the  four  A.  M.  of  the  world 

Composing  our  albas, 

We  who  shook  off  our  dew  with  the  rabbits, 

We    who    have    seen    even   Artemis    a-binding   her 

sandals, 

Have  we  ever  heard  the  like  ? 
O  mountains  of  Hellas!  ! 


Gather  about  me,  O  Muses ! 

When  we  sat  upon  the  granite  brink  in  Helicon 

Clothed  in  the  tattered  sunlight, 

O  Muses  with  delicate  shins, 

O  Muses  with  delectable  knee-joints, 

When  we  splashed  and  were  splashed  with 


44 


The  lucid  Castilian  spray, 

Had  we  ever  such  an  epithet  cast  upon  us !  ! 


"DOMPNA  POIS  DE  ME  NO'US  CAL" 

A  TRANSLATION 
FROM  THE  PROVENCAL  OF  EN  BERTRANS  DE  BORN 

Lady,  since  you  care  nothing  for  me, 

And  since  you  have  shut  me  away  from  you 

Causelessly, 

I  know  not  where  to  go  seeking, 

For  certainly 

I  will  never  again  gather 

Joy  so  rich,  and  if  I  find  not  ever 

A  lady  with  look  so  speaking 

To  my  desire,  worth  yours  whom  I  have  lost, 

I'll  have  no  other  love  at  any  cost. 

And  since  I  could  not  find  a  peer  to  you, 

Neither  one  so  fair,  nor  of  such  heart, 

So  eager  and  alert, 

Nor  with  such  art 

In  attire,  nor  so  gay 

Nor  with  gift  so  bountiful  and  so  true, 


45 


I  will  go  out  a-searching, 
Culling  from  each  a  fair  trait 
To  make  me  a  borrowed  lady 
Till  I  again  find  you  ready. 

Bels  Cembelins,  I  take  of  you  your  colour, 

For  it's  your  own,  and  your  glance 

Where  love  is, 

A  proud  thing  I  do  here, 

For,  as  to  colour  and  eyes 

I  shall  have  missed  nothing  at  all, 

Having  yours. 

I  ask  of  Midons  Aelis  (of  Montfort) 

Her  straight  speech  free-running, 

That  my  phantom  lack  not  in  cunning. 

At  Chalais  of  the  Viscountess,  I  would 

That  she  give  me  outright 

Her  two  hands  and  her  throat, 

So  take  I  my  road 

To  Rochechouart, 

Swift-foot  to  my  Lady  Anhes, 

Seeing  that  Tristan's  lady  Iseutz  had  never 

Such  grace  of  locks,  I  do  ye  to  wit, 

Though  she'd  the  far  fame  for  it. 


Of  Audiart  at  Malemort, 

Though  she  with  a  full  heart 

Wish  me  ill, 

I'd  have  her  form  that's  laced 

So  cunningly, 

Without  blemish,  for  her  love 

Breaks  not  nor  turns  aside. 

I  of  Miels-de-ben  demand 

Her  straight  fresh  body, 

She  is  so  supple  and  young, 

Her  robes  can  but  do  her  wrong. 

Her  white  teeth,  of  the  Lady  Faidita 

I  ask,  and  the  fine  courtesy 

She  hath  to  welcome  one, 

And  such  replies  she  lavishes 

Within  her  nest; 

Of  Bels  Mirals,  the  rest, 

Tall  stature  and  gaiety, 

To  make  these  avail 

She  knoweth  well,  betide 

No  change  nor  turning  aside. 

Ah,  Bels  Senher,  Maent,  at  last 

I  ask  naught  from  you, 

Save  that  I  have  such  hunger  for 


47 


This  phantom 

As  I've  for  you,  such  flame-lap, 

And  yet  I'd  rather 

Ask  of  you  than  hold  another, 

Mayhap,  right  close  and  kissed. 

Ah,  lady,  why  have  you  cast 

Me  out,  knowing  you  hold  me  so  fast 


THE  COMING  OF  WAR:  ACTAEON 

An  image  of  Lethe, 

and  the  fields 
Full  of  faint  light 

but  golden, 
Gray  cliffs, 

and  beneath  them 
A  sea 
Harsher  than  granite, 

unstill,  never  ceasing; 
High  forms 

with  the  movement  of  gods, 
Perilous  aspect; 

And  one  said: 
"  This  is  Actaeon." 

Actaeon  of  golden  greaves! 


)ver  fair  meadows, 
Over  the  cool  face  of  that  field, 
Unstill,  ever  moving, 
Hosts  of  an  ancient  people, 
The  silent  cortege. 


AFTER  CH'U  YUAN 

I  will  get  me  to  the  wood 

Where  the  gods  walk  garlanded  in  wistaria, 

By  the  silver  blue  flood 

move  others  with  ivory  cars. 
There  come  forth  many  maidens 

to  gather  grapes  for  the  leopards,  my  friend, 
For  there  are  leopards  drawing  the  cars. 

I  will  walk  in  the  glade, 

I  will  come  out  of  the  new  thicket 

and  accost  the  procession  of  maidens. 

LIU  CH'E 

The  rustling  of  the  silk  is  discontinued, 

Dust  drifts  over  the  court-yard, 

There  is  no  sound  of  foot-fall,  and  the  leaves 


49 


Scurry  into  heaps  and  lie  still, 

And  she  the  rejoicer  of  the  heart  is  beneath  them 

A  wet  leaf  that  clings  to  the  threshold. 


FAN-PIECE,  FOR  HER  IMPERIAL 
LORD 

A  fan  of  white  silk, 

clear  as  frost  on  the  grass-blade, 
You  also  are  laid  aside. 


TS'AI  CHI'H 

The  petals  fall  in  the  fountain, 

the   orange-coloured  rose-leaves, 
Their  ochre  clings  to  the  stone. 


IN  A  STATION  OF  THE  METRO 

The  apparition  of  these  faces  in  the  crowd; 
Petals  on  a  wet,  black  bough. 


ALBA 

As  cool  as  the  pale  wet  leaves 

She  lay  beside  me  in  the  dawn. 


of  lily-of-the-valley 


HEATHER 

The  black  panther  treads  at  my  side, 

And  above  my  fingers 

There  float  the  petal-like  flames. 

The  milk-white  girls 
Unbend  from  the  holly-trees, 
And  their  snow-white  leopard 
Watches  to  follow  our  trace. 


THE  FAUN 

Ha !  sir,  I  have  seen  you  sniffing  and  snoozling  about 

among  my  flowers. 

And  what,  pray,  do  you  know  about  horticulture, 

you  capriped? 


"  Come,  Auster,  come,  Apeliota, 
And  see  the  faun  in  our  garden. 
But  if  you  move  or  speak 
This  thing  will  run  at  you 
And  scare  itself  to  spasms." 


COITUS 

The  gilded  phaloi  of  the  crocuses 

are  thrusting  at  the  spring  air. 
Here  is  there  naught  of  dead  gods 
But  a  procession  of  festival, 
A  procession,  O  Giulio  Romano, 
Fit  for  your  spirit  to  dwell  in. 
Dione,  your  nights  are  upon  us. 

The  dew  is  upon  the  leaf. 
The  night  about  us  is  restless. 


THE  ENCOUNTER 

All  the  while  they  were  talking  the  new  morality 
Her  eyes  explored  me. 
And  when  I  arose  to  go 


Her  fingers  were  like  the  tissue 
Of  a  Japanese  paper  napkin. 


TEMPORA 

Io !     lo !     Tamuz ! 

The  Dryad  stands  in  my  court-yard 

With  plaintive,  querulous  crying. 

(Tamuz.     Io !     Tamuz!) 

Oh,  no,  she  is  not  crying:     "  Tamuz/' 

She  says,  "  May  my  poems  be  printed  this  week? 

The  god  Pan  is  afraid  to  ask  you, 

May  my  poems  be  printed  this  week?  M 


BLACK  SLIPPERS:  BELLOTTI 

At  the  table  beyond  us 

With  her  little  suede  slippers  off, 

With  her  white-stockin'd  feet 

Carefully  kept  from  the  floor  by  a  napkin, 

She  converses: 

Connaissez-vous   Ostende? 

The  gurgling  Italian  lady  on  the  other  side  of  the 
restaurant 


53 


Replies  with  a  certain  hauteur, 

But  I  await  with  patience 

To  see  how  Celestine  will  re-enter  her  slippers. 

She  re-enters  them  with  a  groan. 


SOCIETY 

The  family  position  was  waning, 
And  on  this  account  the  little  Aurelia, 
Who  had  laughed  on  eighteen  summers, 
Now  bears  the  palsied  contact  of  Phidippus. 


IMAGE  FROM  D'ORLEANS 

Young  men  riding  in  the  street 
In  the  bright  new  season 
Spur  without  reason, 
Causing  their  steeds  to  leap. 


And  at  the  pace  they  keep 
Their  horses'  armoured  feet 
Strike  sparks  from  the  cobbled  street 
In  the  bright  new  season. 


54 


PAPYRUS 

Spring.  .  . 
Too  long.  .  . 
Gongula.  .  . 


"IONE,  DEAD  THE  LONG  YEAR" 

Empty  are  the  ways, 

Empty  are  the  ways  of  this  land 

And  the  flowers 

Bend  over  with  heavy  heads. 
They  bend  in  vain. 
Empty  are  the  ways  of  this  land 

Where  lone 

Walked  once,  and  now  does  not  walk 
But  seems  like  a  person  just  gone. 


Thy  soul 

Grown  delicate  with  satieties, 
Atthis. 

O  Atthis, 
I  long  for  thy  lips. 

55 


I  long  for  thy  narrow  breasts, 
Thou  restless,  ungathered. 


SHOP  GIRL 

For  a  moment  she  rested  against  me 
Like  a  swallow  half  blown  to  the  wall, 
And  they  talk  of  Swinburne's  women, 
And  the  shepherdess  meeting  with  Guido. 
And  the  harlots  of  Baudelaire. 


TO  FORMIANUS'  YOUNG  LADY 
FRIEND 

AFTER  VALERIUS  CATULLUS 

All  Hail!  young  lady  with  a  nose 

by  no  means  too  small, 
With  a  foot  unbeautiful, 

and  with  eyes  that  are  not  black, 
With  fingers  that  are  not  long,  and  with  a  mouth 

undry, 

And  with  a  tongue  by  no  means  too  elegant, 
You  are  the  friend  of  Formianus,  the  vendor  of 
cosmetics, 


And  they  call  you  beautiful  in  the  province, 
And  you  are  even  compared  to  Lesbia. 

O  most  unfortunate  age ! 


TAME  CAT 

"  It  rests  me  to  be  among  beautiful  women. 
Why  should  one  always  lie  about  such  matters  ? 


I  repeat: 

It  rests  me  to  converse  with  beautiful  women 

Even  though  we  talk  nothing  but  nonsense, 

The  purring  of  the  invisible  antennae 
Is  both  stimulating  and  delightful." 


L'ART,  1910 


Green  arsenic  smeared  on  an  egg-white  cloth, 
Crushed    strawberries !     Come,    let    us    feast    our 
eyes. 


57 


SIMULACRA 

Why  does  the  horse-faced  lady  of  just  the  unmen- 
tionable age 

Walk  down  Longacre  reciting  Swinburne  to  herself, 
inaudibly? 

Why  does  the  small  child  in  the  soiled-white  imita- 
tion fur  coat 

Crawl  in  the  very  black  gutter  beneath  the  grape 
stand? 

Why  does  the  really  handsome  young  woman  ap- 
proach me  in  Sackville  Street 

Undeterred  by  the  manifest  age  of  my  trappings? 

WOMEN  BEFORE  A  SHOP 

The  gew-gaws  of  false  amber  and  false  turquoise 

attract  them. 
"  Like  to  like  nature  " :  these  agglutinous  yellows ! 

EPILOGUE 

O  chansons  foregoing 
You  were  a  seven  days'  wonder, 
When  you  came  out  in  the  magazines 
You  created  considerable  stir  in  Chicago, 


And  now  you  are  stale  and  worn  out, 
You're  a  very  depleted  fashion, 
A  hoop-skirt,  a  calash, 
An  homely,  transient  antiquity. 

Only  emotion  remains. 
Your  emotions? 


Are  those  of  a  maitre-de-cafe. 


THE  SOCIAL  ORDER 
I 

This  government  official 

Whose  wife  is  several  years  his  senior, 

Has  such  a  caressing  air 

When  he  shakes  hands  with  young  ladies. 

(Pompes  Funcbres) 

This  old  lady, 

Who  was  "  so  old  that  she  was  an  atheist,'7 

Is  now  surrounded 

By  six  candles  and  a  crucifix, 

While  the  second  wife  of  a  nephew 


59 


Makes  hay  with  the  things  in  her  house. 

Her  two  cats 

Go  before  her  into  Avernus; 

A  sort  of  chloroformed  suttee, 

And  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  their  spirits  will  walk 

With  their  tails  up, 

And  with  a  plaintive,  gentle  mewing, 

For  it  is  certain  that  she  has  left  on  this  earth 

No  sound 

Save  a  squabble  of  female  connections. 


THE  TEA  SHOP 

The  girl  in  the  tea  shop 

is  not  so  beautiful  as  she  was, 
The  August  has  worn  against  her. 
She  does  not  get  up  the  stairs  so  eagerly; 
Yes,  she  also  will  turn  middle-aged, 
And  the  glow  of  youth  that  she  spread  about  us 

as  she  brought  us  our  muffins 
Will  be  spread  about  us  no  longer. 

She  also  will  turn  middle-aged. 


60 


5 


ANCIENT  MUSIC 

Winter  is  icummen  in, 
Lhude  sing  Goddamm, 
Raineth  drop  and  staineth  slop, 
And  how  the  wind  doth  ramm! 

Sing:     Goddamm. 
Skiddeth  bus  and  sloppeth  us, 
An  ague  hath  my  ham. 
reezeth  river,  turneth  liver, 

Damn  you,  sing:     Goddamm. 
Goddamm,  Goddamm,  'tis  why  I  am,  Goddamm, 

So  'gainst  the  winter's  balm. 
Sing  goddamm,  damm,  sing  Goddamm, 
ing  goddamm,  sing  goddamm,  DAMM. 


NOTE. —  This  is  not  folk  music,  but  Dr.  Ker  writes  that  the  tune 
is  to  be  found  under  the  Latin  words  of  a  very  ancient  canon. 


THE  LAKE  ISLE 

O  God,  O  Venus,  O  Mercury,  patron  of  thieves, 
live  me  in  due  time,  I  beseech  you,  a  little  tobacco- 
shop, 
ith  the  little  bright  boxes 

piled  up  neatly  upon  the  shelves 


61 


And  the  loose  fragrant  cavendish 

and  the  shag, 
And  the  bright  Virginia 

loose  under  the  bright  glass  cases, 
And  a  pair  of  scales  not  too  greasy, 
And  the  whores  dropping  in  for  a  word  or  two  ii 

passing, 
For  a  flip  word,  and  to  tidy  their  hair  a  bit. 

O  God,  O  Venus,  O  Mercury,  patron  of  thieves, 
Lend  me  a  little  tobacco-shop, 

or  install  me  in  any  profession 
Save  this  damn'd  profession  of  writing, 

where  one  needs  one's  brains  all  the  time. 


EPITAPHS 

Fu  I 

Fu  I  loved  the  high  cloud  and  the  hill, 
Alas,  he  died  of  alcohol. 

Li  Po 

And  Li  Po  also  died  drunk. 
He  tried  to  embrace  a  moon 
In  the  Yellow  River. 


62 


OUR  CONTEMPORARIES 

When  the  Taihaitian  princess 
Heard  that  he  had  decided, 

She  rushed  out  into  the  sunlight  and  swarmed  up 
a  cocoanut  palm  tree, 

But  he  returned  to  this  island 

And  wrote  ninety  Petrarchan  sonnets. 

NOTE. —  II  s'agit  d'un  jeune  poete  qui  a  suivi  le  culte  de  Gauguin 
jusqu'a  Tahiti  meme  (et  qui  vit  encore).  Etant  fort  bel  homme, 
quand  la  princesse  bistre  entendit  qu'il  voulait  lui  accorder  ses 
faveurs  elle  montra  son  allegresse  de  la  fagon  dont  nous  venons  de 
parler.  Malheureusement  ses  poemes  ne  sont  remplis  que  de  ses 
propres  subjectivites,  style  Victorien  de  la  "  Georgian  Anthology." 


ANCIENT  WISDOM,  RATHER 
COSMIC 


o  Shu  dreamed, 
And  having  dreamed  that  he  was  a  bird,  a  bee,  and 

a  butterfly, 

He  was  uncertain  why  he  should  try  to  feel  like  any- 
thing else, 

Hence  his  contentment. 

63 


THE  THREE  POETS 

Candidia  has  taken  a  new  lover 

And  three  poets  are  gone  into  mourning. 

The  first  has  written  a  long  elegy  to  u  Chloris," 

To  "  Chloris  chaste  and  cold,"  his  "  only  Chloris." 

The  second  has  written  a  sonnet 

upon  the  mutability  of  woman, 
And  the  third  writes  an  epigram  to  Candidia. 


THE  GYPSY 

"  Est-ce  que  vous  avez  vu  des  autres  —  des  camarades  —  avec  des 
singes   ou  des   ours?" 

A  Stray  Gipsy  —  A.D.  1912 

That  was  the  top  of  the  walk,  when  he  said: 
"  Have  you  seen  any  others,  any  of  our  lot, 
"  With  apes  or  bears?  " 

—  A  brown  upstanding  fellow 
Not  like  the  half-castes, 

up  on  the  wet  road  near  Clermont. 
The  wind  came,  and  the  rain, 
And  mist  clotted  about  the  trees  in  the  valley, 
And  I'd  the  long  ways  behind  me, 

gray  Aries  and  Biaucaire, 
And  he  said,  "  Have  you  seen  any  of  our  lot?  " 


I'd  seen  a  lot  of  his  lot  ... 

ever  since  Rhodez, 
Coming  down  from  the  fair 

of  St.  John, 
With  caravans,  but  never  an  ape  or  a  bear. 


THE  GAME  OF  CHESS 

DOGMATIC  STATEMENT  CONCERNING  THE  GAME  OF  CHESS: 
THEME  FOR  A  SERIES  OF  PICTURES 

Red  knights,  brown  bishops,  bright  queens, 
Striking    the    board,    falling    in    strong    u  L  "s    of 

colour, 
Reaching  and  striking  in  angles, 

holding  lines  in  one  colour. 
This  board  is  alive  with  light; 

these  pieces  are  living  in  form, 
Their  moves  break  and  reform  the  pattern: 

Luminous  green  from  the  rooks, 
Clashing  with  "  X  "s  of  queens, 

looped  with  the  knight-leaps. 

"Y"  pawns,  cleaving,  embanking! 
Whirl!     Centripetal!     Mate!     King  down  in  the 
vortex, 


Clash,    leaping   of   bands,    straight   strips   of   hard 

colour, 
Blocked  lights  working  in.     Escapes.     Renewal  of 

contest. 


PROVINCIA  DESERTA 

At  Rochecoart, 
Where  the  hills  part 

in  three  ways, 

And  three  valleys,  full  of  winding  roads, 
Fork  out  to  south  and  north, 
There  is  a  place  of  trees  .   .   .  gray  with  lichen. 
I  have  walked  there 

thinking  of  old  days. 
At  Chalais 

is  a  pleached  arbour; 
Old  pensioners  and  old  protected  women 
Have  the  right  there  — 

it  is  charity. 
I  have  crept  over  old  rafters, 

peering  down 
Over  the  Dronne, 

over  a  stream  full  of  lilies. 
Eastward  the  road  lies, 

Aubeterre  is  eastward, 


66 


, 


With  a  garrulous  old  man  at  the  inn. 
I  know  the  roads  in  that  place : 
Mareuil  to  the  north-east, 

La  Tour, 

There  are  three  keeps  near  Mareuil, 
And  an  old  woman, 

glad  to  hear  Arnaut, 
Glad  to  lend  one  dry  clothing. 


j. 

z 


have  walked 

into  Perigord, 

I  have  seen  the  torch-flames,  high-leaping, 
Painting  the  front  of  that  church; 
Heard,  under  the  dark,  whirling  laughter. 
I  have  looked  back  over  the  stream 

and  seen  the  high  building, 
Seen  the  long  minarets,  the  white  shafts. 
I  have  gone  in  Ribeyrac 

I  and  in  Sarlat, 

have  climbed  rickety  stairs,  heard  talk  of  Croy, 
Walked  over  En  Bertran's  old  layout, 
Have  seen  Narbonne,  and  Cahors  and  Chalus, 
Have  seen  Excideuil,  carefully  fashioned. 


ave  said: 

"  Here  such  a  one  walked. 


67 


"  Here  Coeur-de-Lion  was  slain. 

"  Here  was  good  singing. 
"  Here  one  man  hastened  his  step. 

u  Here  one  lay  panting." 
I  have  looked  south  from  Hautefort, 

thinking  of  Montaignac,  southward. 
I  have  lain  in  Rocafixada, 

level  with  sunset, 
Have  seen  the  copper  come  down 

tingeing  the  mountains, 

I  have  seen  the  fields,  pale,  clear  as  an  emerald, 
Sharp  peaks,  high  spurs,  distant  castles. 
I  have  said:     "  The  old  roads  have  lain  here. 
"  Men  have  gone  by  such  and  such  valleys 
"  Where  the  great  halls  are  closer  together." 
I  have  seen  Foix  on  its  rock,  seen  Toulouse,  and 

Aries  greatly  altered, 
I  have  seen  the  ruined  "  Dorata." 

I  have  said: 
"  Riquier!     Guido." 

I  have  thought  of  the  second  Troy, 
Some  little  prized  place  in  Auvergnat: 
Two  men  tossing  a  coin,  one  keeping  a  castle, 
One  set  on  the  highway  to  sing. 

He  sang  a  woman. 
Auvergne  rose  to  the  song; 


68 


The  Dauphin  backed  him. 
"  The  castle  to  Austors !  " 

"  Pieire  kept  the  singing  — 
"  A  fair  man  and  a  pleasant." 

He  won  the  lady, 
Stole  her  away  for  himself,  kept  her  against  armed 

force  : 

So  ends  that  story. 
That  age  is  gone; 
Pieire  de  Maensac  is  gone. 
I  have  walked  over  these  roads; 
I  have  thought  of  them  living. 


CATHAY 


R  THE  MOST  PART  FROM  THE  CHINESE  OF  RIHAKU, 

FROM    THE    NOTES    OF    THE    LATE    ERNEST 

FENOLLOSA,  AND  THE  DECIPHERINGS 

OF  THE  PROFESSORS  MORI 

AND    ARIGA 


Ou 


SONG  OF  THE  BOWMEN  OF  SHU 

Here  we  are,  picking  the  first  fern-shoots 

And    saying:     When    shall    we    get    back    to    our 

country  ? 
Here  we  are  because  we  have  the  Ken-nin  for  our 

foemen, 

We  have  no  comfort  because  of  these  Mongols. 
We  grub  the  soft  fern-shoots, 
When  anyone  says  "  Return,"  the  others  are  full  of 

sorrow. 
Sorrowful  minds,  sorrow  is  strong,  we  are  hungry 

and  thirsty, 
ur  defence  is  not  yet  made  sure,  no  one  can  let 

his  friend  return. 
We  grub  the  old  fern-stalks. 
We  say:  Will  we  be  let  to  go  back  in  October? 
There  is  no  ease  in  royal  affairs,  we  have  no  com- 
fort, 
r  sorrow  is  bitter,  but  we  would  not  return  to 

our  country. 

What  flower  has  come  into  blossom? 
Whose  chariot?     The  General's. 
Horses,    his    horses    even,    are    tired.     They   were 

strong. 
We  have  no  rest,  three  battles  a  month. 


73 


By  heaven,  his  horses  are  tired. 

The  generals  are  on  them,  the  soldiers  are  by  them. 

The  horses  are  well  trained,  the  generals  have  ivory 

arrows  and  quivers  ornamented  with  fish-skin. 
The  enemy  is  swift,  we  must  be  careful. 
When  we  set  out,  the  willows  were  drooping  with 

spring, 

We  come  back  in  the  snow, 
We  go  slowly,  we  are  hungry  and  thirsty, 
Our  mind  is  full  of  sorrow,  who  will  know  of  our 

grief? 

By  Bunno 
Reputedly  noo  B.C. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  TOILET 

Blue,  blue  is  the  grass  about  the  river 

And  the  willows  have  overfilled  the  close  garden. 

And  within,   the  mistress,   in  the  midmost  of  her 

youth, 

White,  white  of  face,  hesitates,  passing  the  door. 
Slender,  she  puts  forth  a  slender  hand, 

And  she  was  a  courtezan  in  the  old  days, 
And  she  has  married  a  sot, 


74 


Who  now  goes  drunkenly  out 
And  leaves  her  too  much  alone. 

By  Mei  Sheng 
B.C.    140 


THE  RIVER  SONG 

This  boat  is  of  shato-wood,  and  its  gunwales  are 

cut  magnolia, 

Musicians  with  jewelled  flutes  and  with  pipes  of  gold 
Fill  full  the  sides  in  rows,  and  our  wine 
Is  rich  for  a  thousand  cups. 

We  carry  singing  girls,  drift  with  the  drifting  water, 
Yet  Sennin  needs 

A  yellow  stork  for  a  charger,  and  all  our  seamen 
Would  follow  the  white  gulls  or  ride  them. 
Kutsu's  prose  song 
Hangs  with  the  sun  and  moon. 

ng  So's  terraced  palace 

is  now  but  a  barren  hill, 
But  I  draw  pen  on  this  barge 
Causing  the  five  peaks  to  tremble, 
d  I  have  joy  in  these  words 

like  the  joy  of  blue  islands, 
f  glory  could  last  forever 
Then  the  waters  of  Han  would  flow  northward.) 

75 


And  I  have  moped  in  the  Emperor's  garden,  await- 
ing an  order-to-write ! 

I  looked  at  the  dragon-pond,  with  its  willow-col- 
oured water 

Just  reflecting  the  sky's  tinge, 

And  heard  the  five-scpre  nightingales  aimlessly  sing- 
ing. 

The  eastern  wind  brings  the  green  colour  into  the 

island  grasses  at  Yei-shu, 
The  purple  house  and  the  crimson  are  full  of  Spring 

softness. 
South  of  the  pond  the  willow-tips  are  half-blue  and 

bluer, 
Their  cords  tangle  in  mist,  against  the  brocade-like 

palace. 
Vine-strings  a  hundred  feet  long  hang  down  from 

carved  railings, 
And  high  over  the  willows,  the  fine  birds  sing  to  each 

other,  and  listen, 
Crying — "  Kwan,  Kuan,"  for  the  early  wind,  and 

the  feel  of  it. 

The  wind  bundles  itself  into  a  bluish  cloud  and  wan- 
ders off. 
Over  a  thousand  gates,  over  a  thousand  doors  are 

the  sounds  of  spring  singing, 


And  the  Emperor  is  at  Ko. 

Five  clouds  hang  aloft,  bright  on  the  purple  sky, 

The  imperial  guards  come  forth  from  the  golden 
house  with  their  armour  a-gleaming. 

The  Emperor  in  his  jewelled  car  goes  out  to  inspect 
his  flowers, 

He  goes  out  to  Hori,  to  look  at  the  wing-flapping 
storks, 

He  returns  by  way  of  Sei  rock,  to  hear  the  new 
nightingales, 

For  the  gardens  at  Jo-run  are  full  of  new  nightin- 
gales, 

Their  sound  is  mixed  in  this  flute, 

Their  voice  is  in  the  twelve  pipes  here. 

By  Rihaku 
8th  century  A.D. 


THE  RIVER-MERCHANT'S  WIFE: 
A  LETTER 

While  my  hair  was  still  cut  straight  across  my  fore- 
head 

I  played  about  the  front  gate,  pulling  flowers. 
You  came  by  on  bamboo  stilts,  playing  horse, 
You  walked  about  my  seat,  playing  with  blue  plums. 


77 


And  we  went  on  living  in  the  village  of  Chokan : 
Two  small  people,  without  dislike  or  suspicion. 

At  fourteen  I  married  My  Lord  you. 

I  never  laughed,  being  bashful. 

Lowering  my  head,  I  looked  at  the  wall. 

Called  to,  a  thousand  times,  I  never  looked  back. 

At  fifteen  I  stopped  scowling, 
I  desired  my  dust  to  be  mingled  with  yours 
Forever  and  forever  and  forever. 
Why  should  I  climb  the  look  out? 

At  sixteen  you  departed, 

You  went  into  far  Ku-to-Yen,  by  the  river  of  swirl- 
ing eddies, 

And  you  have  been  gone  five  months. 

The  monkeys  make  sorrowful  noise  overhead. 

You  dragged  your  feet  when  you  went  out. 

By  the  gate  now,  the  moss  is  grown,  the  different 
mosses, 

Too  deep  to  clear  them  away ! 

The  leaves  fall  early  this  autumn,  in  wind. 

The  paired  butterflies  are  already  yellow  with 
August 

Over  the  grass  in  the  West  garden; 


They  hurt  me. 

I  grow  older. 

If  you  are  coming  down  through  the  narrows  of  the 

river  Kiang, 

Please  let  me  know  beforehand, 
And  I  will  come  out  to  meet  you 

As  far  as  Cho-fu-Sa. 

By  Rihaku 


THE  JEWEL  STAIRS'  GRIEVANCE 


The  jewelled  steps  are  already  quite  white  with  dew, 
It  is  so  late  that  the  dew  soaks  my  gauze  stockings, 
And  I  let  down  the  crystal  curtain 
And  watch  the  moon  through  the  clear  autumn. 

By  Rihaku 

NOTE. —  Jewel  stairs,  therefore  a  palace.  Grievance,  there- 
fore there  is  something  to  complain  of.  Gauze  stockings,  there- 
fore a  court  lady,  not  a  servant  who  complains.  Clear  autumn, 
therefore  he  has  no  excuse  on  account  of  weather.  Also  she  has 
come  early,  for  the  dew  has  not  merely  whitened  the  stairs,  but 
has  soaked  her  stockings.  The  poem  is  especially  prized  because 
she  utters  no  direct  reproach. 


79 


POEM  BY  THE  BRIDGE  AT 
TEN-SHIN 

March  has  come  to  the  bridge  head, 

Peach    boughs    and    apricot    boughs    hang    over    a 
thousand  gates, 

At  morning  there  are  flowers  to  cut  the  heart, 

And  evening  drives  them  on  the  eastward-flowing 
waters. 

Petals  are  on  the  gone  waters  and  on  the  going, 
And  on  the  back-swirling  eddies, 

But  to-day's  men  are  not  the  men  of  the  old  days, 

Though  they  hang  in  the  same  way  over  the  bridge- 
rail. 

The  sea's  colour  moves  at  the  dawn 

And  the  princes  still  stand  in  rows,  about  the  throne, 

And  the  moon  falls  over  the  portals  of  Sei-go-yo, 

And  clings  to  the  walls  and  the  gate-top. 

With  head  gear  glittering  against  the  cloud  and  sun, 

The  lords  go  forth  from  the  court,   and  into  far 

borders. 

They  ride  upon  dragon-like  horses, 
Upon  horses  with  head-trappings  of  yellow  met; 
And  the  streets  make  way  for  their  passage. 
Haughty  their  passing, 


80 


Haughty  their  steps  as  they  go  in  to  great  banquets, 

To  high  halls  and  curious  food, 

To  the  perfumed  air  and  girls  dancing, 

To  clear  flutes  and  clear  singing; 

To  the  dance  of  the  seventy  couples; 

To  the  mad  chase  through  the  gardens. 

Night  and  day  are  given  over  to  pleasure 

And  they  think  it  will  last  a  thousand  autumns, 

Unwearying  autumns. 

For  them  the  yellow  dogs  howl  portents  in  vain, 
And  what  are  they  compared  to  the  lady  Riokushu, 

That  was  cause  of  hate ! 
Who  among  them  is  a  man  like  Han-rei 

Who  departed  alone  with  his  mistress, 
With  her  hair  unbound,  and  he  his  own  skiffsman! 

By  Rihaku 


' 


LAMENT  OF  THE  FRONTIER 
GUARD 


By  the  North  Gate,  the  wind  blows  full  of  sand, 
Lonely  from  the  beginning  of  time  until  now ! 
Trees  fall,  the  grass  goes  yellow  with  autumn. 
I  climb  the  towers  and  towers 

to  watch  out  the  barbarous  land: 
Desolate  castle,   the  sky,  the  wide  desert. 


81 


There  is  no  wall  left  to  this  village. 

Bones  white  with  a  thousand  frosts, 

High  heaps,  covered  with  trees  and  grass; 

Who  brought  this  to  pass? 

Who  has  brought  the  flaming  imperial  anger? 

Who  has  brought  the  army  with  drums  and  with 
kettle-drums? 

Barbarous  kings. 

A  gracious  spring,  turned  to  blood-ravenous  autumn, 

A  turmoil  of  wars-men,  spread  over  the  middle  king- 
dom, 

Three  hundred  and  sixty  thousand, 

And  sorrow,  sorrow  like  rain. 

Sorrow  to  go,  and  sorrow,  sorrow  returning. 

Desolate,  desolate  fields, 

And  no  children  of  warfare  upon  them, 

No  longer  the  men  for  offence  and  defence. 

Ah,  how  shall  you  know  the  dreary  sorrow  at  the 
North  Gate, 

With  Rihoku's  name  forgotten, 

And  we  guardsmen  fed  to  the  tigers. 

By  Rihaku 


82 


EXILE'S  LETTER 

jo-Kin  of   Rakuyo,   ancient  friend,   Chancellor 

of  Gen. 

Now  I  remember  that  you  built  me  a  special  tavern 
By  the  south  side  of  the  bridge  at  Ten-Shin. 
With  yellow  gold  and  white  jewels,   we  paid  for 

songs  and  laughter 
And  we  were  drunk  for  month  on  month,  forgetting 

the  kings  and  princes. 
Intelligent  men  came  drifting  in  from  the  sea  and 

from  the  west  border, 
And  with  them,  and  with  you  especially 
There  was  nothing  at  cross  purpose, 
And  they  made  nothing  of  sea-crossing  or  of  moun- 
tain-crossing, 

f  only  they  could  be  of  that  fellowship, 
id  we  all  spoke  out  our  hearts  and  minds,  and 

without  regret. 

And  then  I  was  sent  off  to  South  Wei, 
smothered  in  laurel  groves, 

you  to  the  north  of  Raku-hoku, 
Till  we  had  nothing  but  thoughts  and  memories  in 

common. 
And  then,  when  separation  had  come  to  its  worst, 


We  met,  and  travelled  into  Sen-Go, 

Through  all  the  thirty-six  folds  of  the  turning  and 

twisting  waters, 

Into  a  valley  of  the  thousand  bright  flowers, 
That  was  the  first  valley; 
And  into  ten  thousand  valleys  full  of  voices  and 

pine-winds. 

And  with  silver  harness  and  reins  of  gold, 
Out  come  the  East  of  Kan  foreman  and  his  com- 
pany. 
And  there  came  also  the  "  True  man  "  of  Shi-yo  to 

meet  me, 

Playing  on  a  jewelled  mouth-organ. 
In  the  storied  houses  of  San-Ko  they  gave  us  more 

Sennin  music, 
Many  instruments,  like  the  sound  of  young  phoenix 

broods. 
The  foreman  of  Kan  Chu,  drunk,  danced 

because  his  long  sleeves  wouldn't  keep  still 
With  that  music  playing, 
And  I,  wrapped  in  brocade,  went  to  sleep  with  my 

head  on  his  lap, 

And  my  spirit  so  high  it  was  all  over  the  heavens, 
And  before  the  end  of  the  day  we  were  scattered  like 

stars,  or  rain. 


I  had  to  be  off  to  So,  far  away  over  the  waters, 
You  back  to  your  river-bridge. 

And  your  father,  who  was  brave  as  a  leopard, 

Was  governor  in  Hei  Shu,  and  put  down  the  bar- 
barian rabble. 

And  one  May  he  had  you  send  for  me, 
despite  the  long  distance. 

And  what  with  broken  wheels  and  so  on,  I  won't  say 
it  wasn't  hard  going, 

Over  roads  twisted  like  sheep's  guts. 

And  I  was  still  going,  late  in  the  year, 

in  the  cutting  wind  from  the  North, 

And  thinking  how  little  you  cared  for  the  cost, 
and  you  caring  enough  to  pay  it. 

And  what  a  reception: 

Red  jade  cups,  food  well  set  on  a  blue  jewelled  table, 

And  I  was  drunk,  and  had  no  thought  of  returning. 

And  you  would  walk  out  with  me  to  the  western 
corner  of  the  castle, 

To  the  dynastic  temple,  with  water  about  it  clear  as 
blue  jade, 

With  boats  floating,  and  the  sound  of  mouth-organs 
and  drums, 

With  ripples  like  dragon-scales,  going  grass  green 
on  the  water, 


Pleasure  lasting,  with  courtezans,  going  and  coming 

without  hindrance, 

With  the  willow  flakes  falling  like  snow, 
And  the  vermilioned  girls  getting  drunk  about  sunset, 
And  the  water  a  hundred  feet  deep  reflecting  green 

eyebrows 
-  Eyebrows  painted  green  are  a  fine  sight  in  young 

moonlight, 

Gracefully  painted  — 
And  the  girls  singing  back  at  each  other, 
Dancing  in  transparent  brocade, 
And  the  wind  lifting  the  song,  and  interrupting  it, 
Tossing  it  up  under  the  clouds. 

And  all  this  comes  to  an  end. 
And  is  not  again  to  be  met  with. 
I  went  up  to  the  court  for  examination, 
Tried  Layu's  luck,  offered  the  Choyo  song, 
And  got  no  promotion, 

and  went  back  to  the  East  Mountains 

white-headed. 

And  once  again,  later,  we  met  at  the  South  bridge- 
head. 
And  then  the  crowd  broke  up,  you  went  north  to 

San  palace, 
And  if  you  ask  how  I  regret  that  parting: 

It  is  like  the  flowers  falling  at  Spring's  end 
Confused,  whirled  in  a  tangle. 

86 


What  is  the  use  of  talking,  and  there  is  no  end  of 

talking, 

There  is  no  end  of  things  in  the  heart. 
I  call  in  the  boy, 
Have  him  sit  on  his  knees  here 

To  seal  this, 
And  send  it  a  thousand  miles,  thinking. 

By  Rihaku 

From  Rihaku 
FOUR  POEMS  OF  DEPARTURE 

Light  rain  is  on  the  light  dust 

The  willows  of  the  inn-yard 

Will  be  going  greener  and  greener, 

But  you,  Sir,  had  better  take  ivine  ere  your  departure, 

For  you  will  have  no  friends  about  you 

When  you  come  to  the  gates  of  Go. 

(or  Omakitsu) 

SEPARATION  ON  THE  RIVER 
KIANG 

Ko-Jin  goes  west  from  Ko-kaku-ro, 

The  smoke-flowers  are  blurred  over  the  river. 

His  lone  sail  blots  the  far  sky. 

And  now  I  see  only  the  river, 

The  long  Kiang,  reaching  heaven. 

8? 


TAKING  LEAVE  OF  A  FRIEND 

Blue  mountains  to  the  north  of  the  walls, 
White  river  winding  about  them ; 
Here  we  must  make  separation 
And  go  out  through  a  thousand  miles  of  dead  grass. 
Mind  like  a  floating  wide  cloud, 
Sunset  like  the  parting  of  old  acquaintances 
Who  bow  over  their  clasped  hands  at  a  distance. 
Our  horses  neigh  to  each  other 
as  we  are  departing. 

LEAVE-TAKING  NEAR  SHOKU 

"  Sanso,  King  of  Shoku,  built  roads " 

They  say  the  roads  of  Sanso  are  steep, 
Sheer  as  the  mountains. 
The  walls  rise  in  a  man's  face, 
Clouds  grow  out  of  the  hill 

at  his  horse's  bridle. 

Sweet  trees  are  on  the  paved  way  of  the  Shin, 
Their  trunks  burst  through  the  paving, 
And  freshets  are  bursting  their  ice 

in  the  midst  of  Shoku,  a  proud  city. 

Men's  fates  are  already  set, 
There  is  no  need  of  asking  diviners. 


88 


THE  CITY  OF  CHOAN 

The  phoenix  are  at  play  on  their  terrace. 

The  phoenix  are  gone,  the  river  flows  on  alone. 

Flowers  and  grass 

Cover  over  the  dark  path 

where  lay  the  dynastic  house  of  the  Go. 
The  bright  cloths  and  bright  caps  of  Shin 
Are  now  the  base  of  old  hills. 

The  Three  Mountains  fall  through  the  far  heaven, 
The  isle  of  White  Heron 

splits  the  two  streams  apart. 
Now  the  high  clouds  cover  the  sun 
And  I  can  not  see  Choan  afar 
And  I  am  sad. 


SOUTH-FOLK  IN  COLD  COUNTRY 

The  Dai  horse  neighs  against  the  bleak  wind  of 

Etsu, 

The  birds  of  Etsu  have  no  love  for  En,  in  the  north, 
Emotion  is  born  out  of  habit. 
Yesterday  we  went  out  of  the  Wild-Goose  gate, 


To-day  from  the  Dragon-Pen.* 
Surprised.     Desert  turmoil.     Sea  sun. 
Flying  snow  bewilders  the  barbarian  heaven. 
Lice  swarm  like  ants  over  our  accoutrements. 
Mind  and  spirit  drive  on  the  feathery  banners. 
Hard  fight  gets  no  reward. 
Loyalty  is  hard  to  explain. 
Who  will  be  sorry  for  General  Rishogu, 

the  swift  moving, 
Whose  white  head  is  lost  for  this  province? 


SENNIN  POEM  BY  KAKUHAKU 

The  red  and  green  kingfishers 

flash  between  the  orchids  and  clover, 
One  bird  casts  its  gleam  on  another. 

Green  vines  hang  through  the  high  forest, 
They  weave  a  whole  roof  to  the  mountain, 
The  lone  man  sits  with  shut  speech, 
He  purrs  and  pats  the  clear  strings. 

*  I.e.,  we  have  been  warring  from  one  end  of  the  empire  to  the 
other,  now  east,  now  west,  on  each  border. 


He  throws  his  heart  up  through  the  sky, 
He  bites  through  the  flower  pistil 

and  brings  up  a  fine  fountain. 
The  red-pine-tree  god  looks  on  him  and  wonders. 
He   rides   through   the   purple   smoke   to   visit  the 

sennin, 

He  takes  "  Floating  Hill  "  *  by  the  sleeve, 
He  claps  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the  great  water 

sennin. 

But  you,  you  dam'd  crowd  of  gnats, 
Can  you  even  tell  the  age  of  a  turtle? 


A  BALLAD  OF  THE  MULBERRY 
ROAD 

(Fenollosa  MSS.,   very    early ) 

The  sun  rises  in  south  east  corner  of  things 
To  look  on  the  tall  house  of  the  Shin 
For  they  have  a  daughter  named  Rafu, 

(pretty  girl) 

She  made  the  name  for  herself:     "  Gauze  Veil," 
For  she  feeds  mulberries  to  silkworms, 

She   gets   them   by   the   south   wall   of   the 
town. 

Name  of  a  sennin. 


With   green   strings   she   makes   the   warp    of   hei 

basket, 
She  makes  the  shoulder-straps  of  her  basket 

from  the  boughs  of  Katsura, 
And  she  piles  her  hair  up  on  the  left  side  of  her 

head-piece. 


Her  earrings  are  made  of  pearl, 
Her  underskirt  is  of  green  pattern-silk, 
Her  overskirt  is  the  same  silk  dyed  in  purple, 
And  when  men  going  by  look  on  Rafu 
They  set  down  their  burdens, 
They  stand  and  twirl  their  moustaches. 


OLD  IDEA  OF  CHOAN  BY  ROSORIU 

I 

The  narrow  streets  cut  into  the  wide  highway  at 

Choan, 
Dark  oxen,  white  horses, 

drag  on  the  seven  coaches  with  outriders, 
The  coaches  are  perfumed  wood, 
The  jewelled  chair  is  held  up  at  the  crossway, 


92 


Before  the  royal  lodge 

a  glitter  of  golden  saddles,  awaiting  the 

princess, 

They  eddy  before  the  gate  of  the  barons. 
The  canopy  embroidered  with  dragons 

drinks  in  and  casts  back  the  sun. 

Evening  comes. 

The  trappings  are  bordered  with  mist. 
The  hundred  cords  of  mist  are  spread  through 

and  double  the  trees, 
Night  birds,  and  night  women, 

spread    out    their    sounds    through    the 
gardens. 


II 

Birds  with  flowery  wing,  hovering  butterflies 

crowd  over  the  thousand  gates, 
Trees  that  glitter  like  jade, 

terraces  tinged  with  silver, 
The  seed  of  a  myriad  hues, 
A  net-work  of  arbours  and  passages  and  covered 

ways, 
)ouble  towers,  winged  roofs, 

border  the  net-work  of  ways: 


93 


A  place  of  felicitous  meeting. 
Riu's  house  stands  out  on  the  sky, 

with  glitter  of  colour 
As  Butei  of  Kan  had  made  the  high  golden  lotus 

to  gather  his  dews, 

Before  it  another  house  which  I  do  not  know: 
How  shall  we  know  all  the  friends 

whom  we  meet  on  strange  roadways? 


TO-EM-MEFS  "  THE  UNMOVING 
CLOUD " 

"  WET  SPRINGTIME,"  SAYS  To-EM-MEI, 

"  WET  SPRING  IN  THE  GARDEN." 


The  clouds  have  gathered,  and  gathered, 
and  the  rain  falls  and  falls, 

The  eight  ply  of  the  heavens 

are  all  folded  into  one  darkness, 

And  the  wide,  flat  road  stretches  out. 

I  stop  in  my  room  toward  the  East,  quiet,  quiet, 

I  pat  my  new  cask  of  wine. 

My  friends  are  estranged,  or  far  distant, 

I  bow  my  head  and  stand  still. 


94 


II 

Rain,  rain,  and  the  clouds  have  gathered, 
The  eight  ply  of  the  heavens  are  darkness, 
The  flat  land  is  turned  into  river. 

'  Wine,  wine,  here  is  wine !  " 
I  drink  by  my  eastern  window. 
I  think  of  talking  and  man, 
And  no  boat,  no  carriage,  approaches. 

Ill 

The  trees  in  my  east-looking  garden 

are  bursting  out  with  new  twigs, 
They  try  to  stir  new  affection, 

And  men  say  the  sun  and  moon  keep  on  moving 
because  they  can't  find  a  soft  seat. 

The  birds  flutter  to  rest  in  my  tree, 

and  I  think  I  have  heard  them  saying, 
"  It  is  not  that  there  are  no  other  men 
But  we  like  this  fellow  the  best, 
But  however  we  long  to  speak 
He  can  not  know  of  our  sorrow." 

T'ao  Yuan  Ming 

A.D.  365-427 
END  OF  CATHAY 


95 


NEAR  PERIGORD 

A  Perigord,  pres  del  muralh 

Tan  que  i  puosch'   om  gitar  ab   math 

You'd  have  men's  hearts  up  from  the  dust 

And  tell  their  secrets,  Messire  Cino, 

Right  enough?     Then  read  between  the  lines 

of  Uc  St.  Circ, 
Solve  me  the  riddle,  for  you  know  the  tale. 

Bertrans,  En  Bertrans,  left  a  fine  canzone: 
"  Maent,  I  love  you,  you  have  turned  me  out. 
The  voice  at  Montfort,  Lady  Agnes'  hair, 
Bel  Miral's  stature,  the  viscountess'  throat, 
Set  all  together,  are  not  worthy  of  you.   .   .   ." 
And  all  the  while  you  sing  out  that  canzone, 
Think  you  that  Maent  lived  at  Montaignac, 
One  at  Chalais,  another  at  Malemort 
Hard  over  Brive  —  for  every  lady  a  castle, 
Each  place  strong. 

Oh,  is  it  easy  enough? 
Tairiran  held  hall  in  Montaignac, 
His  brother-in-law  was  all  there  was  of  power 
In  Perigord,  and  this  good  union 
Gobbled  all  the  land,  and  held  it  later 

for  some  hundred  years. 


And  our  En  Bertrans  was  in  Altafort, 

Hub  of  the  wheel,  the  stirrer-up  of  strife, 

As  caught  by  Dante  in  the  last  wallow  of  hell  — 

The  headless  trunk  "  that  made  its  head  a  lamp." 

For  separation  wrought  out  separation, 

And   he   who   set   the   strife   between   brother   and 

brother 

And  had  his  way  with  the  old  English  king, 
Viced  in  such  torture  for  the  "  counterpass." 

How  would  you  live,  with  neighbours  set  about 

you  — 

Poictiers  and  Brive,  untaken  Rochechouart, 
Spread  like  the  finger-tips  of  one  frail  hand; 
And  you  on  that  great  mountain  of  a  palm  — 
Not  a  neat  ledge,  not  Foix  between  its  streams, 
But  one  huge  back  half-covered  up  with  pine, 
Worked  for  and  snatched  from  the  string-purse  of 

Born  — 
The    four   round   towers,    four   brothers  —  mostly 

fools : 

What  could  he  do  but  play  the  desperate  chess, 
And  stir  old  grudges? 

"  Pawn  your  castles,  lords! 
the  Jews  pay." 

And  the  great  scene  — 


97 


(That,  maybe,  never  happened!) 

Beaten  at  last, 
Before  the  hard  old  king: 

*  Your  son,  ah,  since  he  died 
My  wit  and  worth  are  cobwebs  brushed  aside 
In  the  full  flare  of  grief.     Do  what  you  will." 

Take  the  whole  man,  and  ravel  out  the  story. 
He  loved  this  ladv  in  castle  Montaignac  ? 
The  castle  flanked  him  —  he  had  need  of  it. 
You    read    to-day,    how    long    the    overlords    of 

Perigord, 
The  Talleyrands,   have  held  the  place,   it  was  no 

transient  fiction. 
And    Maent   failed   him?     Or    saw    through    the 

scheme  ? 


And  all  his  net-like  thought  of  new  alliance? 
Chalais  is  high,  a-level  with  the  poplars. 
Its  lowest  stones  just  meet  the  valley  tips 
Where  the  low  Dronne  is  filled  with  water-lilies. 
And  Rochecouart  can  match  it,  stronger  yet, 
The  very  spur's  end,  built  on  sheerest  cliff, 
And  Malemort  keeps  its  close  hold  on  Brive, 
While  Born,  his  own  close  purse,  his  rabbit  warren, 
His  subterranean  chamber  with  a  dozen  doors, 


A-bristle  with  antennae  to  feel  roads, 

To  sniff  the  traffic  into  Perigord. 

And  that  hard  phalanx,  that  unbroken  line, 

The  ten  good  miles  from  thence  to  Maent's  castle^ 

All  of  his  flank  —  how  could  he  do  without  her? 

And  all  the  road  to  Cahors,  to  Toulouse? 

What  would  he  do  without  her? 

"  Papiol, 

Go  forthright  singing  —  Anhes,  Cembelins. 
There  is  a  throat;  ah,  there  are  two  white  hands; 
There  is  a  trellis  full  of  early  roses, 
And  all  my  heart  is  bound  about  with  love. 
Where  am  I  come  with  compound  flatteries  — 
What  doors  are  open  to  fine  compliment?  " 
And  every  one  half  jealous  of  Maent? 
He  wrote  the  catch  to  pit  their  jealousies 
Against  her,  give  her  pride  in  them? 

Take  his  own  speech,  make  what  you  will  of  it  — 
And  still  the  knot,  the  first  knot,  of  Maent? 

Is  it  a  love  poem?     Did  he  sing  of  war? 
Is  it  an  intrigue  to  run  subtly  out, 
Born  of  a  jongleur's  tongue,  freely  to  pass 
Up  and  about  and  in  and  out  the  land, 


99 


Mark  him  a  craftsman  and  a  strategist? 

(St.  Leider  had  done  as  much  as  Polhonac, 

Singing  a  different  stave,  as  closely  hidden.) 

Oh,  there  is  precedent,  legal  tradition, 

To  sing  one  thing  when  your  song  means  another, 

"  Et  albirar  ab  lor  bordon  — " 

Foix'    count    knew    that.     What    is    Sir    Bertrans' 


singing? 


Maent,  Maent,  and  yet  again  Maent, 

Or  war  and  broken  heaumes  and  politics? 


II 

End  fact.     Try  fiction,     Let  us  say  we  see 
En  Bertrans,  a  tower-room  at  Hautefort, 
Sunset,  the  ribbon-like  road  lies,  in  red  cross-light, 
South    toward    Montaignac,    and    he    bends    at    a 

table 
Scribbling,  swearing  between  his  teeth;  by  his  lef 

hand 

Lie  little  strips  of  parchment  covered  over, 
Scratched  and  erased  with  al  and  ochaisos. 
Testing  his  list  of  rhymes,  a  lean  man?     Bilious 
With  a  red  straggling  beard? 
And  the  green  cat's-eye  lifts  toward  Montaignac. 


100 


Or  take  his  "  magnet  "  singer  setting  out, 
Dodging    his     way    past    Aubeterre,     singing     at 

Chalais 

In  the  vaulted  hall, 

Or,  by  a  lichened  tree  at  Rochecouart 
Aimlessly  watching  a  hawk  above  the  valleys, 
Waiting  his  turn  in  the  mid-summer  evening, 
Thinking    of    Aelis,    whom    he    loved    heart    and 

soul  .  .   . 

To  find  her  half  alone,  Montfort  away, 
And  a  brown,  placid,  hated  woman  visiting  her, 
Spoiling  his  visit,  with  a  year  before  the  next  one. 
Little  enough? 
Or    carry    him    forward.     "  Go    through    all    the 

courts, 
My  Magnet,"  Bertrand  had  said. 

We  came  to  Ventadour 

In  the  mid  love  court,  he  sings  out  the  canzon, 
No  one  hears  save  Arrimon  Luc  D'Esparo  — 
No  one  hears  aught  save  the  gracious  sound  of 

compliments. 

Sir  Arrimon  counts  on  his  fingers,  Montfort, 
Rochecouart,  Chalais,  the  rest,  the  tactic, 
Malemort,   guesses  beneath,   sends  word  to  Coeur- 

de-Lion : 


101 


The  compact,  de  Born  smoked  out,  trees  felled 

About  his  castle,  cattle  driven  out ! 

Or  no  one  sees  it,  and  En  Bertrans  prospered? 

And  ten  years  after,  or  twenty,  as  you  will, 
Arnaut  and  Richard  lodge  beneath  Chalus: 
The  dull  round  towers  encroaching  on  the  field, 
The  tents  tight  drawn,  horses  at  tether 
Further  and  out  of  reach,  the  purple  night, 
The  crackling  of  small  fires,  the  bannerets, 
The  lazy  leopards  on  the  largest  banner, 
Stray  gleams  on  hanging  mail,  an  armourer's  torch- 
flare 
Melting  on  steel. 

And  in  the  quietest  space 

They  probe  old  scandals,  say  de  Born  is  dead; 
And  we've  the  gossip  (skipped  six  hundred  years). 
Richard  shall  die  to-morrow  —  leave  him  there 
Talking  of  trobar  clus  with  Daniel. 
And  the   "  best  craftsman  "  sings   out  his   friend's 

song, 

Envies  its  vigour  .  .  .  and  deplores  the  technique, 
Dispraises  his  own  skill?  —  That's  as  you  will. 
And  they  discuss  the  dead  man, 
Plantagenet  puts  the  riddle:     "  Did  he  love  her?  " 


102 


And  Arnaut  parries:     "  Did  he  love  your  sister? 
True,  he  has  praised  her,  but  in  some  opinion 
He  wrote  that  praise  only  to  show  he  had 
The  favour  of  your  party;  had  been  well  received.'1 

"  You  knew  the  man." 

"  You  knew  the  man." 

"  I  am  an  artist,  you  have  tried  both  metiers." 
'  You  were  born  near  him." 

"  Do  we  know  our  friends?  " 
ay  that  he   saw  the  castles,   say  that  he  loved 

Maent!" 
"  Say  that  he  loved  her,  does  it  solve  the  riddle?  " 

End  the  discussion,  Richard  goes  out  next  day 
And  gets  a  quarrel-bolt  shot  through  his  vizard, 
Pardons  the  bowman,  dies, 


" In  s; 

And  w 


Ends  our  discussion.     Arnaut  ends 
n  sacred  odour"   -  (that's  apocryphal!) 
nd  we  can  leave  the  talk  till  Dante  writes : 
Surely  I  saw,  and  still  before  my  eyes 
Goes  on  that  headless  trunk,  that  bears  for  light 
Its  own  head  swinging,  gripped  by  the  dead  hair, 
And  like  a  swinging  lamp  that  says,  "Ah  me! 


103 


/  severed  men,  my  head  and  heart 

Ye  see  here  severed,  my  life's  counterpart." 

Or  take  En  Bertrans? 


Ill 

Ed  eran  due  in  uno,  ed  uno  in  due 

Inferno,  XXVIII,    125 

"  Bewildering  spring,  and  by  the  Auvezere 
Poppies  and  day's-eyes  in  the  green  email 
Rose  over  us;  and  we  knew  all  that  stream, 
And  our  two  horses  had  traced  out  the  valleys; 
Knew    the    low    flooded    lands    squared    out    with 

poplars, 

In  the  young  days  when  the  deep  sky  befriended. 
And  great  wings  beat  above  us  in  the  twilight, 
And  the  great  wheels  in  heaven 
Bore  us  together  .   .  .  surging  .  .  .  and  apart  .  .  . 
Believing  we  should  meet  with  lips  and  hands. 

High,  high  and  sure  .  .  .  and  then  the  counter- 
thrust  : 

'  Why  do  you  love  me  ?     Will  you  always  love  me  ? 
But  I  am  like  the  grass,  I  can  not  love  you.' 


104 


Or,  '  Love,  and  I  love  and  love  you, 
And    hate    your    mind,    not   you,    your    soul,    your 
hands.' 

So  to  this  last  estrangement,  Tairiran ! 

There  shut  up  in  his  castle,  Tairiran's, 
She    who    had   nor    ears    nor   tongue    save    in    her 

hands, 

Gone  —  ah,  gone  —  untouched,  unreachable ! 
She  who  could  never  live  save  through  one  person, 
She  who  could  never  speak  save  to  one  person, 
And  all  the  rest  of  her  a  shifting  change, 

broken  bundle  of  mirrors  ... 


A 


ILLANELLE:  THE  PSYCHOLOGICAL 
HOUR 

ad  over-prepared  the  event, 

that  much  was  ominous. 
With  middle-ageing  care 

I  had  laid  out  just  the  right  books. 
I  had  almost  turned  down  the  pages. 

Beauty  is  so  rare  a  thing. 
So  few  drink  of  my  fountain. 


105 


So  much  barren  regret, 

So  many  hours  wasted! 

And  now  I  watch,  from  the  window, 

the  rain,  the  wandering  busses. 

u  Their  little  cosmos  is  shaken  " — 

the  air  is  alive  with  that  fact. 
In  their  parts  of  the  city 

they  are  played  on  by  diverse  forces. 
How  do  I  know? 

Oh,  I  know  well  enough. 
For  them  there  is  something  afoot. 

As  for  me : 
I  had  over-prepared  the  event  — 

Beauty  is  so  rare  a  thing. 
So  few  drink  of  my  fountain. 

Two  friends :  a  breath  of  the  forest  .  .  . 
Friends?     Are  people  less  friends 

because  one  has  just,  at  last,  found  them? 
Twice  they  promised  to  come. 

"  Between  the  night  and  morning?  " 

Beauty  would  drink  of  my  mind. 
Youth  would  awhile  forget 

my  youth  is  gone  from  me. 


106 


II 

("  Speak  up!     You  have  danced  so  stiffly? 
Someone  admired  your  works, 
And  said  so  frankly. 

"  Did  you  talk  like  a  fool, 

The  first  night? 

The  second  evening?" 

"  But  they  promised  again: 

'  To-morrow  at  tea-time.'  ") 

III 

Now  the  third  day  is  here  — 

no  word  from  either; 
No  word  from  her  nor  him, 
Only  another  man's  note : 

"  Dear  Pound,  I  am  leaving  England." 

DANS  UN  OMNIBUS  DE  LONDRES 

Les  yeux  d'une  morte  aimee 

M'ont  salue, 

Enchasses  dans  un  visage  stupide 

Dont  tous  les  autres  traits  etaient  banals, 

Us  m'ont  salue 


107 


Et  alors  je  vis  bien  des  choses 
Au  dedans  de  ma  memoire 
Remuer, 
S'eveiller. 

Je  vis  des  canards  sur  le  bord  d'un  lac  minuscule, 
Aupres  d'un  petit  enfant  gai,  bossu. 

Je  vis  les  colonnes  anciennes  en  "  toe  " 

Du  Pare  Monceau, 

Et  deux  petites  filles  graciles, 

Des  patriciennes, 

aux  toisons  couleur  de  lin, 
Et  des  pigeonnes 
Grasses 

comme  des  poulardes. 
Je  vis  le  pare, 
Et  tous  les  gazons  divers 
Ou  nous  avions  loue  des  chaises 
Pour  quatre  sous. 

Je  vis  les  cygnes  noirs, 

Japonais, 

Leurs  ailes 

Teintees  de  couleur  sang  de-dragon, 


108 


Et  toutes  les  fleurs 
D'Armenonville. 

Les  yeux  d'une  morte 
M'ont  salue. 


PAGANI'S,  NOVEMBER  8 

Suddenly  discovering  in  the  eyes  of  the  very 
beautiful 

Normande  cocotte 

The  eyes  of  the  very  learned  British  Museum  as- 
sistant. 

• 


X)  A  FRIEND  WRITING  ON 
CABARET  DANCERS 

"Breathe  not  the  word  to-morrow  in  her  ears" 
Vir  Quidem,  on  Dancers 


Good  "  Hedgethorn,"  for  we'll  anglicize  your  name 
Until  the  last  slut's  hanged  and  the  last  pig  disem- 
boweled, 

Seeing  your  wife  is  charming  and  your  child 
Sings  in  the  open  meadow  —  at  least  the  kodak  says 
so  — 


109 


My  good  fellow,  you,  on  a  cabaret  silence 
And  the  dancers,  you  write  a  sonnet; 
Say  "  Forget  To-morrow,"  being  of  all  men 
The  most  prudent,  orderly,  and  decorous ! 

"  Pepita  "  has  no  to-morrow,  so  you  write. 

Pepita  has  such  to-morrows:  with  the  hands  puffed 

out, 

The  pug-dog's  features  encrusted  with  tallow 
Sunk  in  a  frowsy  collar  —  an  unbrushed  black. 
She  will  not  bathe  too  often,  but  her  jewels 
Will  be  a  stuffy,  opulent  sort  of  fungus 
Spread    on    both    hands    and    on    the    up-pushed 

bosom  — 
It  juts  like  a  shelf  between  the  jowl  and  corset. 

Have    you,    or    I,    seen    most    of    cabarets,    good 
Hedgethorn  ? 

Here's    Pepita,    tall    and    slim    as    an    Egyptian 

mummy, 

Marsh-cranberries,  the  ribbed  and  angular  pods 
Flare  up  with  scarlet  orange  on  stiff  stalks 
And  so  Pepita 

flares   on  the  crowded  stage  before   our 
tables 


no 


Or  slithers  about  between  the  dishonest  waiters  — 

"  CARMEN  EST  MAIGRE,  UN  TRAIT  DE  BISTRE 
CERNE  SON  CEIL  DE  GITANA  " 

And  "  rend  la  flamme  " 

you  know  the  deathless  verses. 
I  search  the  features,  the  avaricious  features 
Pulled  by  the  kohl  and  rouge  out  of  resemblance  — 
Six  pence  the  object  for  a  change  of  passion. 


'  Write  me  a  poem." 

Come  now,  my  dear  Pepita, 
"  -ita,  bonita,  chiquita," 

that's    what    you    mean    you    advertising 

spade, 

Or    take    the    intaglio,    my    fat    great-uncle's    heir- 
loom: 

Cupid,  astride  a  phallus  with  two  wings, 
Swinging  a  cat-o'-nine-tails. 

No.     Pepita, 
1  have  seen  through  the  crust. 

I  don't  know  what  you  look  like 
But  your  smile  pulls  one  way 

and  your  painted  grin  another, 
While  that  cropped  fool, 

that  torn-boy  who  can't  earn  her  living, 


in 


Come,  come  to-morrow, 

To-morrow  in  ten  years  at  the  latest, 
She  will  be  drunk  in  the  ditch,  but  you,  Pepita, 
Will  be  quite  rich,  quite  plump,  with  pug-1 

features, 

With  a  black  tint  staining  your  cuticle, 
Prudent  and  svelte  Pepita. 

"  Poete,  writ  me  a  poeme!  " 
Spanish  and  Paris,  love  of  the  arts  part  of  your 

geisha-culture ! 


Euhenia,  in  short  skirts,  slaps  her  wide  stomach, 
Pulls  up  a  roll  of  fat  for  the  pianist, 
"  Pauvre  femme  maigre !  "  she  says. 
He  sucks  his  chop  bone, 
That  some  one  else  has  paid  for, 

grins  up  an  amiable  grin, 
Explains  the  decorations. 

Good  Hedgethorn,  they  all  have  future! 
All  these  people. 

Old  Popkoff 

Will  dine  next  week  with  Mrs.  Basil, 
Will  meet  a  duchess  and  an  ex-diplomat's  widow 
From  Weehawken  —  who  has  never  known 
Any  but  "  Majesties  "  and  Italian  nobles. 


112 


Euhenia  will  have  a  fonda  in  Orbajosa. 

The  amorous  nerves  will  give  way  to  digestive; 

"  Delight  thy  soul  in  fatness,"  saith  the  preacher. 

We  can't  preserve  the  elusive  "  mica  salts  " 

It  may  last  well  in  these  dark  northern  climates, 

Nell  Gwynn's  still  here,  despite  the  reformation, 

And  Edward's  mistresses  still  light  the  stage, 

A  glamour  of  classic  youth  in  their  deportment. 

The  prudent  whore  is  not  without  her  future, 

Her  bourgeois  dulness  is  deferred. 


Her  present  dulness  .  .  . 
Oh  well,  her  present  dulness  ... 


Now  in  Venice,  'Storante  al  Giardino,  I  went  early, 
Saw  the  performers  come :  him,  her,  the  baby, 
A  quiet  and  respectable-tawdry  trio ; 
An  hour  later:  a  show  of  calves  and  spangles, 


... 


n  e  duo  fanno  tre" 

Night  after  night, 

No  change,  no  change  of  program,  "  Chef 
La  donna  e  mobile" 


HOMAGE  TO  QUINTUS  SEPTIMIUS 
FLORENTIS  CHRISTIANUS 

(Ex  libris  Graecae) 
I 

Theodorus  will  be  pleased  at  my  death, 

And  someone  else  will  be  pleased  at  the  death 

Theodorus, 
And  yet  everyone  speaks  evil  of  death. 

II 

This  place  is  the  Cyprian's,  for  she  has  ever  the 

fancy 

To  be  looking  out  across  the  bright  sea, 
Therefore  the  sailors  are  cheered,  and  the  waves 
Keep  small  with  reverence,  beholding  her  image. 

Anyte 

111 

A  sad  and  great  evil  is  the  expectation  of  death  — 
And    there    are    also    the    inane    expenses    of    the 

funeral; 

Let  us  therefore  cease  from  pitying  the  dead 
For  after  death  there  comes  no  other  calamity. 

Palladas 


114 


IV 

Troy 

Whither,  O  city,  are  your  profits  and  your  gilded 

shrines, 

And  your  barbecues  of  great  oxen, 
And  the  tall  women  walking  your  streets,   in  gilt 

clothes, 

With  their  perfumes  in  little  alabaster  boxes? 
Where  is  the  work  of  your  home-born  sculptors? 

Time's  tooth  is  into  the  lot,  and  war's  and  fate's 

too. 

Envy  has  taken  your  all, 
Save  your  douth  and  your  story. 

Agathas  Scholasticus 


Woman?     Oh,  woman  is  a  consummate  rage, 

but  dead,  or  asleep,  she  pleases. 
Take  her.     She  has  two  excellent  seasons. 

Palladas 


VI 

Nicharcus  upon  Phidon  his  doctor 

Phidon  neither  purged  me,  nor  touched  me, 
But  I  remembered  the  name  of  his  fever  medicine 

and  died. 


FISH  AND  THE  SHADOW 

The  salmon-trout  drifts  in  the  stream, 
The  soul  of  the  salmon-trout  floats  over  the  stream 
Like  a  little  wafer  of  light. 

The  salmon  moves  in  the  sun-shot,  bright  shallow 
sea.  .  .  . 

As  light  as  the  shadow  of  the  fish 

that  falls  through  the  water, 
She  came  into  the  large  room  by  the  stair, 
Yawning  a  little  she  came  with  the  sleep  still  upon 
her. 

"  I   am  just  from  bed.     The  sleep  is  still  in 

eyes. 
"  Come.     I  have  had  a  long  dream." 


116 


And  I:     "  That  wood? 

And  two  springs  have  passed  us." 

"  Not  so  far,  no,  not  so  far  now, 

There  is  a  place  —  but  no  one  else  knows  it  — 

A  field  in  a  valley  .  .  . 

Qu'ieu  sul  avinen, 
leu  lo  sai." 

She  must  speak  of  the  time 

Of   Arnaut    de    Mareuil,    I    thought,    "  qu'ieu    sui 


avinen." 


Light  as  the  shadow  of  the  fish 

That  falls  through  the  pale  green  water. 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  FRANQOIS-MARIE 
AROUET  (DE  VOLTAIRE) 

I 
Phyllidula  and  the  Spoils  of  Gouvernet 

Where,  Lady,  are  the  days 
When  you  could  go  out  in  a  hired  hansom 
Without  footmen  and  equipments? 
And  dine  in  a  soggy,  cheap  restaurant? 


117 


Phyllidula  now,  with  your  powdered  Swiss  footman 
Clanking  the  door  shut, 

and  lying; 

And  carpets  from  Savonnier,  and  from  Persia, 
And  your  new  service  at  dinner, 
And  plates  from  Germain, 
And  cabinets  and  chests  from  Martin  (almost  lac- 
quer), 

And  your  white  vases  from  Japan, 
And  the  lustre  of  diamonds, 
Etcetera,  etcetera,  and  etcetera? 


II 
To  Madame  du  Chdtelet 

If  you'd  have  me  go  on  loving  you 
Give  me  back  the  time  of  the  thing. 

Will  you  give  me  dawn  light  at  evening? 
Time  has  driven  me  out  of  the  fine  plaisaunces, 
The  parks  with  the  swards  all  over  dew, 
And  grass  going  glassy  with  the  light  on  it, 
The  green  stretches  where  love  is  and  the  grapes 
Hang  in  yellow-white  and  dark  clusters  ready  for 
pressing. 


118 


And  if  now  we  can't  fit  with  our  time  of  life 
There  is  not  much  but  its  evil  left  us. 

Life  gives  us  two  minutes,  two  seasons  • — • 

One  to  be  dull  in; 

Two  deaths  —  and  to  stop  loving  and  being  lovable, 
That  is  the  real  death, 
The  other  is  little  beside  it. 

Crying  after  the  follies  gone  by  me, 

Quiet  talking  is  all  that  is  left  us  — 

Gentle  talking,  not  like  the  first  talking,  less  lively; 

And  to  follow  after  friendship,  as  they  call  it, 

Weeping  that  we  can  follow  naught  else. 


Ill 

To  Madame  Lullin 

rou'll  wonder  that  an  old  man  of  eighty 
Can  go  on  writing  you  verses.  .  .  . 

Grass  showing  under  the  snow, 
Birds  singing  late  in  the  year! 


119 


And  Tibullus  could  say  of  his  death,  in  his  Latin: 
"  Delia,  I  would  look  on  you,  dying." 

And  Delia  herself  fading  out, 
Forgetting  even  her  beauty. 


THE  TEMPERAMENTS 

Nine   adulteries,    12   liaisons,    64   fornications   and 

something  approaching  a  rape 
Rest  nightly  upon  the  soul  of  our  delicate  friend 

Florialis, 
And   yet    the    man    is    so    quiet    and    reserved   in 

demeanour 
That  he  is  held  to  be  both  bloodless  and  sexless. 

Bastidides,   on   the   contrary,   who   both   talks   and 

writes  of  nothing  but  copulation, 
Has  become  the  father  of  twins, 
But  he  accomplished  this  feat  at  some  cost ; 
He  had  to  be  four  times  cuckold. 


END    OF    LUSTRA 


I2O 


POEMS  PUBLISHED  BEFORE  1911 


IN  DURANCE 

I  am  homesick  after  mine  own  kind, 

Oh,  I  know  that  there  are  folk  about  me,  friendly 

faces, 
But  I  am  homesick  after  mine  own  kind. 

"  These  sell  our  pictures!  "     Oh  well, 

They  reach  me  not,  touch  me  some  edge  or  that, 

But  reach  me  not  and  all  my  life's  become 

One  flame,  that  reaches  not  beyond 

Mine  heart's  own  hearth, 

Or  hides  among  the  ashes  there  for  thee. 

"  Thee  "?     Oh  "  thee  "  is  who  cometh  first 

Out  of  mine  own  soul-kin, 

For  I  am  homesick  after  mine  own  kind 

And  ordinary  people  touch  me  not. 

Yea,  I  am  homesick 
After  mine  own  kind  that  know,  and  feel 
And  have  some  breath  for  beauty  and  the  arts. 

Aye,  I  am  wistful  for  my  kin  of  the  spirit 
And  have  none  about  me  save  in  the  shadows 
When  come  they,  surging  of  power,  "  DAEMON," 


123 


"  Quasi  KALOUN,"  S.  T.  says,  Beauty  is  most  that, 

a  "  calling  to  the  soul." 
Well  then,  so  call  they;  the  swirlers  out  of  the  mist 

of  my  soul, 
They  that  come  mewards  bearing  old  magic. 

But  for  all  that,  I  am  homesick  after  mine  own  kind 

And  would  meet  kindred  even  as  I  am, 

Flesh-shrouded  bearing  the  secret. 

"  All  they  that  with  strange  sadness  " 

Have  the  earth  in  mock'ry,  and  are  kind  to  all, 

My  fellows,  aye  I  know  the  glory 

Of  th'  unbounded  ones,  but  ye,  that  hide 

As  I  hide  most  the  while 

And  burst  forth  to  the  windows  only  whiles  or  whiles 

For  love,  or  hope,  or  beauty  or  for  power, 

Then  smoulder,  with  the  lids  half  closed 

And  are  untouched  by  the  echoes  of  the  world. 

Oh  ye,  my  fellows :  with  the  seas  between  us  some  be, 

Purple  and  sapphire  for  the  silver  shafts 

Of  sun  and  spray  all  shattered  at  the  bows, 

And  some  the  hills  hold  off, 

The  little  hills  to  east  us,  though  here  we 

Have  damp  and  plain  to  be  our  shutting  in. 


124 


And  yet  my  soul  sings  "  Up  I  "  and  we  are  one. 
Yea  thou,  and  Thou,  and  THOU,  and  all  my  kin 
To  whom  my  breast  and  arms  are  ever  warm, 
For  that  I  love  ye  as  the  wind  the  trees 
That  holds  their  blossoms  and  their  leaves  in  cure 
And  calls  the  utmost  singing  from  the  boughs 
That  'thout  him,  save  the  aspen,  were  as  dumb 
Still  shade,  and  bade  no  whisper  speak  the  birds  of 

how 
"  Beyond,  beyond,  beyond,  there  lies  .  .  ." 


PIERE  VIDAL  OLD 

tt  is  of  Piere  Vidal,  the  fool  par  excellence  of  all  Provence,  of 
whom  the  tale  tells  how  he  ran  mad,  as  a  wolf,  because  of  his  love 
for  Loba  of  Penautier,  and  how  men  hunted  him  with  dogs  through 
the  mountains  of  Cabaret  and  brought  him  for  dead  to  the  dwelling 
of  this  Loba  (she-wolf)  of  Penautier,  and  how  she  and  her  Lord 
had  him  healed  and  made  welcome,  and  he  stayed  some  time  at 
that  court.  He  speaks: 

When  I  but  think  upon  the  great  dead  days 

And  turn  my  mind  upon  that  splendid  madness, 

Lo !  I  do  curse  my  strength 

And  blame  the  sun  his  gladness; 

For  that  the  one  is  dead 

And  the  red  sun  mocks  my  sadness. 


125 


Behold  me,  Vidal,  that  was  fool  of  fools! 

Swift  as  the  king  wolf  was  I  and  as  strong 

When  tall  stags  fled  me  through  the  alder  brakes, 

And  every  jongleur  knew  me  in  his  song, 

And  the  hounds  fled  and  the  deer  fled 

And  none  fled  over  long. 

Even  the  grey  pack  knew  me  and  knew  fear. 
God !  how  the  swiftest  hind's  blood  spurted  hot 
Over  the  sharpened  teeth  and  purpling  lips ! 
Hot  was  that  hind's  blood  yet  it  scorched  me  not 
As  did  first  scorn,  then  lips  of  the  Penautier! 
Aye  ye  are  fools,  if  ye  think  time  can  blot 

From  Piere  Vidal's  remembrance  that  blue  night. 
God !  but  the  purple  of  the  sky  was  deep ! 
Clear,  deep,  translucent,  so  the  stars  me  seemed 
Set  deep  in  crystal;  and  because  my  sleep 
—  Rare  visitor  —  came  not, —  the  Saints  I  guerdon 
For  that  restlessness  —  Piere  set  to  keep 


One  more  fool's  vigil  with  the  hollyhocks. 

Swift  came  the  Loba,  as  a  branch  that's  caught, 

Torn,  green  and  silent  in  the  swollen  Rhone, 

Green  was  her  mantle,  close,  and  wrought 

Of  some  thin  silk  stuff  that's  scarce  stuff  at  all, 

But  like  a  mist  wherethrough  her  white  form  fought, 


126 


And  conquered!     Ah  God!  conquered! 
Silent  my  mate  came  as  the  night  was  still. 
Speech?     Words?     Faugh!     Who  talks  of  words 

and  love?! 

Hot  is  such  love  and  silent, 
Silent  as  fate  is,  and  as  strong  until 
It  faints  in  taking  and  in  giving  all. 

Stark,  keen,  triumphant,  till  it  plays  at  death. 
God !  she  was  white  then,  splendid  as  some  tomb 
High  wrought  of  marble,  and  the  panting  breath 
Ceased  utterly.     Well,  then  I  waited,  drew, 
alf-sheathed,  then  naked  from  its  saffron  sheath 
rew  full  this  dagger  that  doth  tremble  here. 


ust  then  she  woke  and  mocked  the  less  keen  blade. 
Ah  God,  the  Loba !  and  my  only  mate ! 
Was  there  such  flesh  made  ever  and  unmade ! 
God  curse  the  years  that  turn  such  women  grey! 
Behold  here  Vidal,  that  was  hunted,  flayed, 
Shamed  and  yet  bowed  not  and  that  won  at  last. 


And  yet  I  curse  the  sun  for  his  red  gladness, 
I  that  have  known  strath,  garth,  brake,  dale, 
And  every  run-way  of  the  wood  through  the  great 
madness, 


127 


Behold  me  shrivelled  as  an  old  oak's  trunk 
And  made  men's  mock'ry  in  my  rotten  sadness 

No  man  hath  heard  the  glory  of  my  days : 
No  man  hath  dared  and  won  his  dare  as  I : 
One  night,  one  body  and  one  welding  flame 
What  do  ye  own,  ye  niggards!  that  can  buy 
Such  glory  of  the  earth?     Or  who  will  win 
Such  battle-guerdon  with  his  "  prowesse  high 

O  Age  gone  lax!     O  stunted  followers, 
That  mask  at  passions  and  desire  desires, 
Behold  me  shrivelled,  and  your  mock  of  mocks; 
And  yet  I  mock  you  by  the  mighty  fires 
That  burnt  me  to  this  ash. 


Ah!  Cabaret!     Ah  Cabaret,  thy  hills  again! 


Take  your  hands  off  me !   .  .   .  (Sniffing  the  air) 

Ha!  this  scent  is  hot. 


128 


CANZONI 

FIRST  PUBLISHED  1911 


PRAYER  FOR  HIS  LADY'S  LIFE 

FROM  PROPERTIUS,  ELEGIAE,  LIB.  Ill,  26 

Here  let  thy  clemency,  Persephone,  hold  firm, 
Do  thou,  Pluto,  bring  here  no  greater  harshness. 
So    many    thousand    beauties    are    gone    down    to 

Avernus 
Ye  might  let  one  remain  above  with  us. 

With  you  is  lope,  with  you  the  white-gleaming  Tyro, 
With  you  is  Europa  and  the  shameless  Pasiphae, 
And  all  the  fair  from  Troy  and  all  from  Achaia, 
From  the  sundered  realms,  of  Thebes  and  of  aged 

Priamus; 

And  all  the  maidens  of  Rome,  as  many  as  they  were, 
They  died,  and  the  greed  of  your  flame  consumes 

them. 


•f 


ere  let  thy  clemency,  Persephone,  hold  firm, 
o  thou,  Pluto,  bring  here  no  greater  harshness. 
So  many  thousand  fair  are  gone  down  to  Avernus, 
Ye  might  let  one  remain  above  with  us. 


129 


"BLANDULA,  TENULLA,  VAGULA" 

What  hast  thou,  O  my  soul,  with  paradise? 

Will  we  not  rather,  when  our  freedom's  won, 

Get  us  to  some  clear  place  wherein  the  sun 

Lets  drift  in  on  us  through  the  olive  leaves 

A  liquid  glory?     If  at  Sirmio, 

My  soul,  I  meet  thee  when  this  life's  outrun, 

Will  we  not  find  some  headland  consecrated 

By  aery  apostles  of  terrene  delight, 

Will  not  our  cult  be  founded  on  the  waves, 

Clear  sapphire,  cobalt,  cyanine, 

On  triune  azures,  the  impalpable 

Mirrors  unstill  of  the  eternal  change? 

Soul,  if  She  meet  us  there,  will  any  rumour 
Of  havens  more  high  and  courts  desirable 
Lure  us  beyond  the  cloudy  peak  of  Riva? 


ERAT  HORA 

( Thank    you,    whatever    comes."     And    then    sh< 

turned 

And,  as  the  ray  of  sun  on  hanging  flowers 
Fades  when  the  wind  hath  lifted  them  aside, 
Went  swiftly  from  me.     Nay,  whatever  conies 


130 


One  hour  was  sunlit  and  the  most  high  gods 
May  not  make  boast  of  any  better  thing 
Than  to  have  watched  that  hour  as  it  passed. 


THE  SEA  OF  GLASS 

I  looked  and  saw  a  sea 

roofed  over  with  rainbows, 
In  the  midst  of  each 

two  lovers  met  and  departed; 
"hen  the  sky  was  full  of  faces 

with  gold  glories  behind  them, 


ROME 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY 
"  Troica    Roma    resurges." 

PROPERTIUS 

thou  new  comer  who  seek'st  Rome  in  Rome 
And  find'st  in  Rome  no  thing  thou  canst  call  Roman; 
Arches  worn  old  and  palaces  made  common, 
Rome's  name  alone  within  these  walls  keeps  home. 


B, 


ehold  how  pride  and  ruin  can  befall 

ne  who  hath  set  the  whole  world  'neath  her  laws, 


All-conquering,  now  conquered,  because 
She  is  Time's  prey  and  Time  consumeth  all. 

Rome  that  are  Rome's  one  sole  last  monument, 
Rome  that  alone  hast  conquered  Rome  the  town, 
Tiber  alone,  transient  and  seaward  bent, 
Remains  of  Rome.     O  world,  thou  uncon- 

stant  mime ! 

That  which  stands  firm  in  thee  Time  batters  down, 
And  that  which  fleeteth  doth  outrun  swift  time. 


HER  MONUMENT,  THE  IMAGE 
CUT  THEREON 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  LEOPARDI 
(Written  1831-3  circa) 

Such  wast  thou, 

Who  art  now 

But  buried  dust  and  rusted  skeleton. 

Above  the  bones  and  mire, 

Motionless,  placed  in  vain, 

Mute  mirror  of  the  flight  of  speeding  years, 

Sole  guard  of  grief 

Sole  guard  of  memory 

Standeth  this  image  of  the  beauty  sped. 


132 


t 


O  glance,  when  thou  wast  still  as  thou  art  now, 

How  hast  thou  set  the  fire 

A-tremble  in  men's  veins;  O  lip  curved  high 

To  mind  me  of  some  urn  of  full  delight, 

O  throat  girt  round  of  old  with  swift  desire, 

O  palms  of  Love,  that  in  your  wonted  ways 

Not  once  but  many  a  day 

Felt  hands  turn  ice  a-sudden,  touching  ye, 

That  ye  were  once !  of  all  the  grace  ye  had 

That  which  remaineth  now 

Shameful,  most  sad 

Finds  'neath  this  rock  fit  mould,  fit  resting  place 


o 


d  still  when  fate  recalleth, 

ven  that  semblance  that  appears  amongst  us 
Is  like  to  heaven's  most  'live  imagining. 
All,  all  our  life's  eternal  mystery ! 
To-day,  on  high 

Mounts,   from  our  mighty  thoughts  and  from  the 
fount 

f  sense  untellable,  Beauty 
That  seems  to  be  some  quivering  splendour  cast 
By  the  immortal  nature  on  this  quicksand, 
And  by  surhuman  fates 
Given  to  mortal  state 

o  be  a  sign  and  an  hope  made  secure 


133 


Of  blissful  kingdoms  and  the  aureate  spheres; 

And  on  the  morrow,  by  some  lightsome  twist, 

Shameful  in  sight,  abject,  abominable 

All  this  angelic  aspect  can  return 

And  be  but  what  it  was 

With  all  the  admirable  concepts  that  moved  from  it 

Swept  from  the  mind  with  it  in  its  departure. 

Infinite  things  desired,  lofty  visions 

'Got  on  desirous  thought  by  natural  virtue, 

And  the  wise  concord,  whence  through  delicious  seas 

The  arcane  spirit  of  the  whole  Mankind 

Turns  hardy  pilot  .  .  .  and  if  one  wrong  note 

Strike  the  tympanum, 

Instantly 

That  paradise  is  hurled  to  nothingness. 

O  mortal  nature, 

If  thou  art 

Frail  and  so  vile  in  all, 

How  canst  thou  reach  so  high  with  thy  poor  sense ; 

Yet  if  thou  art 

Noble  in  any  part 

How  is  the  noblest  of  thy  speech  and  thought 

So  lightly  wrought 

Or  to  such  base  occasion  lit  and  quenched? 


134 


HOUSMAN'S  MESSAGE  TO 
MANKIND 


O  woe,  woe, 

People  are  born  and  die, 
We  also  shall  be  dead  pretty  soon, 
Therefore  let  us  act  as  if  we  were 
dead  already. 

The  bird  sits  on  the  hawthorn  tree 
But  he  dies  also,  presently. 
Some  lads  get  hung,  and  some  get  shot. 
Woeful  is  this  human  lot. 

Woe!  woe,  etcetera.  .  .  . 

London  is  a  woeful  place, 
Shropshire  is  much  pleasanter. 
Then  let  us  smile  a  little  space 
Upon  fond  nature's  morbid  grace. 

Oh,  Woe,  woe,  woe,  etcetera.  , 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  HEINE 

VON   DIE    HEIMKEHR 
I 

Is  your  hate,  then,  of  such  measure? 
Do  you,  truly,  so  detest  me  ? 

135 


Through  all  the  world  will  I  complain 
Oh  how  you  have  addressed  me. 

O  ye  lips  that  are  ungrateful, 
Hath  it  never  once  distressed  you, 
That  you  can  say  such  awful  things 
Of  any  one  who  ever  kissed  you? 

II 

So  thou  hast  forgotten  fully 

That  I  so  long  held  thy  heart  wholly, 

Thy  little  heart,  so  sweet  and  false  and  small 

That  there's  no  thing  more  sweet  or  false  at  all. 

Love  and  lay  thou  hast  forgotten  fully, 

And  my  heart  worked  at  them  unduly. 

I  know  not  if  the  love  or  if  the  lay  were  better  stuff, 

But  I  know  now,  they  both  were  good  enough. 

Ill 

Tell  me  where  thy  lovely  love  is, 
Whom  thou  once  did  sing  so  sweetly, 
When  the  fairy  flames  enshrouded 
Thee,  and  held  thy  heart  completely. 

136 


All  the  flames  are  dead  and  sped  now 
And  my  heart  is  cold  and  sere; 
Behold  this  book,  the  urn  of  ashes, 
'Tis  my  true  love's  sepulchre. 

IV 

I  dreamt  that  I  was  God  Himself 
Whom  heavenly  joy  immerses, 
And  all  the  angels  sat  about 
And  praised  my  verses. 


The  mutilated  choir  boys 
When  I  begin  to  sing 
Complain  about  the  awful  noise 
And  call  my  voice  too  thick  a  thing. 

When  light  their  voices  lift  them  up, 
Bright  notes  against  the  ear, 
Through  trills  and  runs  like  crystal, 
Ring  delicate  and  clear. 

They  sing  of  Love  that's  grown  desirous, 
Of  Love,  and  joy  that  is  Love's  inmost  part, 
And  all  the  ladies  swim  through  tears 
Toward  such  a  work  of  art. 


137 


VI 

This  delightful  young  man 
Should  not  lack  for  honourers, 
He  propitiates  me  with  oysters, 
With  Rhine  wine  and  liqueurs. 

How  his  coat  and  pants  adorn  him ! 
Yet  his  ties  are  more  adorning, 
In  these  he  daily  comes  to  ask  me : 
"  Are  you  feeling  well  this  morning?  " 

He  speaks  of  my  extended  fame, 
My  wit,  charm,  definitions, 
And  is  diligent  to  serve  me, 
Is  detailed  in  his  provisions. 

In  evening  company  he  sets  his  face 
In  most  spmtuel  positions, 
And  declaims  before  the  ladies 
My  god-like  compositions. 

O  what  comfort  it  is  for  me 
To  find  him  such,  when  the  days  bring 
No  comfort,  at  my  time  of  life  when 
All  good  things  go  vanishing. 

138 


TRANSLATOR  TO  TRANSLATED 

0  Harry  Heine,  curses  be, 

1  live  too  late  to  sup  with  thee! 

Who   can   demolish   at  such  polished  ease 
Philistia's  pomp  and  Arts  pomposities! 


VII 

SONG  FROM  DIE  HARZREISE 

I  am  the  Princess  Ilza 
In  Ilsenstein  I  fare, 
Come  with  me  to  that  castle 
And  we'll  be  happy  there. 

Thy  head  will  I  cover  over 
With  my  waves'  clarity 
Till  thou  forget  thy  sorrow, 
O  wounded  sorrowfully. 

Thou  wilt  in  my  white  arms  there, 
Nay,  on  my  breast  thou  must 
Forget  and  rest  and  dream  there 
For  thine  old  legend-lust. 

My  lips  and  my  heart  are  thine  there 
As  they  were  his  and  mine. 
His?     Why  the  good  King  Harry's, 
And  he  is  dead  lang  syne. 


139 


Dead  men  stay  alway  dead  men, 
Life  is  the  live  man's  part, 
And  I  am  fair  and  golden 
With  joy  breathless  at  heart. 

If  my  heart  stay  below  there, 
My  crystal  halls  ring  clear 
To  the  dance  of  lords  and  ladies 
In  all  their  splendid  gear. 

The  silken  trains  go  rustling, 
The  spur-clinks  sound  between, 
The  dark  dwarfs  blow  and  bow  there 
Small  horn  and  violin. 

Yet  shall  my  white  arms  hold  thee, 
That  bound  King  Harry  about. 
Ah,  I  covered  his  ears  with  them 
When  the  trumpet  rang  out. 


VIII 

And  have  you  thoroughly  kissed  my  lips  ? 

There  was  no  particular  waste, 
And  are  you  not  ready  when  evening's  come? 

There's  no  particular  haste. 


140 


You've  got  the  whole  night  before  you, 
Heart's-all-beloved-my-own, 

In  an  uninterrupted  night  one  can 
Get  a  good  deal  of  kissing  done. 


UND  DRANG 

Nay,  dwells  he  in  cloudy  rumour  alone? 

BINYON 


I  am  worn  faint, 

The  winds  of  good  and  evil 

Blind  me  with  dust 

And  burn  me  with  the  cold, 

There  is  no  comfort  being  over-man; 

Yet  are  we  come  more  near 

The  great  oblivions  and  the  labouring  night, 

Inchoate  truth  and  the  sepulchral  forces. 

II 

Confusion,  clamour,  'mid  the  many  voices 
Is  there  a  meaning,  a  significance? 

That  life  apart  from  all  life  gives  and  takes, 
This  life,  apart  from  all  life's  bitter  and  life's  sweet, 
Is  good. 


141 


Ye  see  me  and  ye  say:  exceeding  sweet 
Life's  gifts,  his  youth,  his  art, 
And  his  too  soon  acclaim. 


I  also  knew  exceeding  bitterness, 

Saw  good  things  altered  and  old  friends  fare  forth, 

And  what  I  loved  in  me  hath  died  too  soon, 

Yea  I  have  seen  the  "  gray  above  the  green  " ; 

Gay  have  I  lived  in  life; 

Though  life  hath  lain 

Strange  hands  upon  me  and  hath  torn  my  sides, 
Yet  I  believe. 


orrn, 


Life  is  most  cruel  where  she  is  most  wise. 

Ill 

The  will  to  live  goes  from  me. 

I  have  lain 
Dull  and  out-worn 

with  some  strange,  subtle  sickness. 
Who  shall  say 

That  love  is  not  the  very  root  of  this, 
O  thou  afar? 

Yet  she  was  near  me, 

that  eternal  deep. 


142 


O  it  is  passing  strange  that  love 
Can  blow  two  ways  across  one  soul. 


And  I  was  Aengus  for  a  thousand  years, 
And  she,  the  eveMiving,  moved  with  me 
And  strove  amid  the  waves,  and 

would  not  go. 

IV 

ELEGIA 

"  Far  buon  tempo  e  trionfare  " 

;<  I  have  put  my  days  and  dreams  out  of  mind," 
For  all  their  hurry  and  their  weary  fret 
Availed  me  little.     But  another  kind 
Of  leaf  that's  fast  in  some  more  sombre  wind, 
Is  man  on  life,  and  all  our  tenuous  courses 
Wind  and  unwind  as  vainly. 


I  have  lived  long,  and  died, 

Yea  I  have  been  dead,  right  often, 

And  have  seen  one  thing: 

The  sun,  while  he  is  high,  doth  light  our  wrong 

And  none  can  break  the  darkness  with  a  song. 

To-day's  the  cup.     To-morrow  is  not  ours : 
Nay,  by  our  strongest  bands  we  bind  her  not, 


Nor  all  our  fears  and  our  anxieties 
Turn  her  one  leaf  or  hold  her  scimitar. 

The  deed  blots  out  the  thought 

And  many  thoughts,  the  vision; 

And  right's  a  compass  with  as  many  poles 

As  there  are  points  in  her  circumference, 

'Tis  vain  to  seek  to  steer  all  courses  even, 

And  all  things  save  sheer  right  are  vain  enough. 

The  blade  were  vain  to  grow  save  toward  the  sun, 

And  vain  th'  attempt  to  hold  her  green  forever. 

All  things  in  season  and  no  thing  o'er  long! 
Love  and  desire  and  gain  and  good  forgetting, 
Thou  canst  not  stay  the  wheel,  hold  none  too  long ! 


How  our  modernity, 

Nerve-wracked  and  broken,  turns 

Against  time's  way  and  all  the  way  of  things, 

Crying  with  weak  and  egoistic  cries! 


All  things  are  given  over, 
Only  the  restless  will 
Surges  amid  the  stars 


144 


Seeking  new  moods  of  life, 
New  permutations. 


See,  and  the  very  sense  of  what  we  know 
Dodges  and  hides  as  in  a  sombre  curtain 
Bright  threads  leap  forth,  and  hide,  and  leave  no 
pattern. 

VI 

I  thought  I  had  put  Love  by  for  a  time 
And  I  was  glad,  for  to  me  his  fair  face 
Is  like  Pain's  face. 

A  little  light, 

The  lowered  curtain  and  the  theatre  ! 
And  o'er  the  frail  talk  of  the  inter-act 
Something  that  broke  the  jest!     A  little  light, 
The  gold,  and  half  the  profile  ! 

The  whole  face 

Was  nothing  like  you,  yet  that  image  cut 
Sheer  through  the  moment. 


I  have 


ave  gone  seeking  for  you  in  the  twilight, 
Here  in  the  flurry  of  Fifth  Avenue, 
Here  where  they  pass  between  their  teas  and  teas. 
Is  it  such  madness?  though  you  could  not  be 


Ever  in  all  that  crowd,  no  gown 

Of  all  their  subtle  sorts  could  be  your  gown, 

Yet  I  am  fed  with  faces,  is  there  one 
That  even  in  the  half-light  mindeth  me. 


VII 

THE  HOUSE  OF  SPLENDOUR 

'Tis  Evanoe's, 


A  house  not  made  with  hands, 
But  out  somewhere  beyond  the  worldly  ways 
Her  gold  is  spread,  above,  around,  inwoven, 
Strange  ways  and  walls  are  fashioned  out  of  it. 

And  I  have  seen  my  Lady  in  the  sun, 

Her  hair  was  spread  about,  a  sheaf  of  wings, 

And  red  the  sunlight  was,  behind  it  all. 

And  I  have  seen  her  there  within  her  house, 
With  six  great  sapphires  hung  along  the  wall, 
Low,  panel-shaped,  a-level  with  her  knees, 
And  all  her  robe  was  woven  of  pale  gold. 

There  are  there  many  rooms  and  all  of  gold, 
Of  woven  walls  deep  patterned,  of  email, 


146 


Of  beaten  work;  and  through  the  claret  stone, 
Set  to  some  weaving,  comes  the  aureate  light. 
Here  am  I  come  perforce  my  love  of  her, 
Behold  mine  adoration 

Maketh  me  clear,  and  there  are  powers  in  this 
Which,  played  on  by  the  virtues  of  her  soul, 
Break  down  the  four-square  walls  of  standing  time. 


VIII 

THE  FLAME 

'Tis  not  a  game  that  plays  at  mates  and  mating, 

Provenge  knew; 

'Tis  not  a  game  of  barter,  lands  and  houses, 

Provenge  knew. 

We  who  are  wise  beyond  your  dream  of  wisdom, 

Drink  our  immortal  moments;  we  "  pass  through." 

We  have  gone  forth  beyond  your  bonds  and  borders, 

Provence  knew; 

And  all  the  tales  they  ever  writ  of  Oisin 

Say  but  this: 

That  man  doth  pass  the  net  of  days  and  hours. 

Where  time  is  shrivelled  down  to  time's  seed  corn 

We  of  the  Ever-living,  in  that  light 

Meet  through  our  veils  and  whisper,  and  of  love. 


147 


O  smoke  and  shadow  of  a  darkling  world, 
Barters  of  passion,  and  that  tenderness 
That's  but  a  sort  of  cunning!     O  my  Love, 
These,  and  the  rest,  and  all  the  rest  we  knew. 

'Tis  not  a  game  that  plays  at  mates  and  mating, 
'Tis  not  a  game  of  barter,  lands  and  houses, 
'Tis  not  "  of  days  and  nights  "  and  troubling  years, 
Of  cheeks  grown  sunken  and  glad  hair  gone  gray; 
There  is  the  subtler  music,  the  clear  light 
Where  time  burns  back  about  th'  eternal  embers. 
We  are  not  shut  from  all  the  thousand  heavens : 
Lo,  there  are  many  gods  whom  we  have  seen, 
Folk  of  unearthly  fashion,  places  splendid, 
Bulwarks  of  beryl  and  of  chrysoprase. 

Sapphire  Benacus,  in  thy  mists  and  thee 
Nature  herself's  turned  metaphysical, 
Who  can  look  on  that  blue  and  not  believe? 

Thou  hooded  opal,  thou  eternal  pearl, 

O  thou  dark  secret  with  a  shimmering  floor, 

Through  all  thy  various  mood  I  know  thee  mine ; 

If  I  have  merged  my  soul,  or  utterly 
Am  solved  and  bound  in,  through  aught  here  on 
earth, 


148 


There  canst  thou  find  me,  O  thou  anxious  thou, 
Who  call'st  about  my  gates  for  some  lost  me ; 
I  say  my  soul  flowed  back,  became  translucent. 
Search  not  my  lips,  O  Love,  let  go  my  hands, 
This  thing  that  moves  as  man  is  no  more  mortal. 
If  thou  hast  seen  my  shade  sans  character, 
If  thou  hast  seen  that  mirror  of  all  moments, 
That  glass  to  all  things  that  o'ershadow  it, 
Call  not  that  mirror  me,  for  I  have  slipped 
Your  grasp,  I  have  eluded. 

IX 

BEATJE  INSCRIPTIO) 

How  will  this  beauty,  when  I  am  far  hence, 
Sweep  back  upon  me  and  engulf  my  mind ! 

How  will  these  hours,  when  we  twain  are  gray, 
Turned  in  their  sapphire  tide,  come  flooding  o'er  us ! 

x 

(THE  ALTAR) 

Let  us  build  here  an  exquisite  friendship, 
The  flame,  the  autumn,  and  the  green  rose  of  love 
Fought  out  their  strife  here,  'tis  a  place  of  wonder; 
Where  these  have  been,  meet  'tis,  the  ground  is  holy. 


149 


IX 

(AU  SALON) 

Her  grave,  sweet  haughtiness 

Pleaseth  me,  and  in  like  wise 

Her  quiet  ironies. 

Others  are  beautiful,  none  more,  some  less. 

I  suppose,  when  poetry  comes  down  to  facts, 
When  our  souls  are  returned  to  the  gods 

and  the  spheres  they  belong  in, 
Here  in  the  every-day  where  our  acts 
Rise  up  and  judge  us; 

I  suppose  there  are  a  few  dozen  verities 
That  no  shift  of  mood  can  shake  from  us : 

One  place  where  we'd  rather  have  tea 
(Thus  far  hath  modernity  brought  us) 
"Tea"  (Damn  you!) 

Have  tea,  damn  the  Caesars, 

Talk  of  the  latest  success,  give  wing  to  some  scandal, 
Garble  a  name  we  detest,  and  for  prejudice? 
Set  loose  the  whole  consummate  pack 

to  bay  like  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's 
This  our  reward  for  our  works, 

sic  crescit  gloria  mundi : 
Some  circle  of  not  more  than  three 

that  we  prefer  to  play  up  to, 


150 


Some  few  whom  we'd  rather  please 

than  hear  the  whole  aegrum  vulgus 
Splitting  its  beery  jowl 

a-meaowling  our  praises. 

Some  certain  peculiar  things, 

cari  laresque,  penates, 
Some  certain  accustomed  forms, 

the  absolute  unimportant. 


you  that  lean 
•om  amber  lattices  upon  the  cobalt  night, 


XII 

(AU  JARDIN) 

you,  away  high  there, 

F- 

I  am  below  amid  the  pine  trees, 
Amid  the  little  pine  trees,  hear  me ! 

"  The  jester  walked  in  the  garden." 

Did  he  so? 

Well,  there's  no  use  your  loving  me 
That  way,  Lady; 

r  I've  nothing  but  songs  to  give  you. 


I  am  set  wide  upon  the  world's  ways 
To  say  that  life  is,  some  way,  a  gay  thing, 
But  you  never  string  two  days  upon  one  wire 
But  there'll  come  sorrow  of  it. 

And  I  loved  a  love  once, 
Over  beyond  the  moon  there, 

I  loved  a  love  once, 
And,  may  be,  more  times, 

But  she  danced  like  a  pink  moth  in  the  shrubbery. 

Oh,  I  know  you  women  from  the  "  other  folk," 
And  it'll  all  come  right, 
O'  Sundays. 

"  The  jester  walked  in  the  garden." 

Did  he  so? 


RIPOSTES 

FIRST  PUBLISHED  1912 

When  I  behold  how  black,  immortal  ink 
Drips  from  my  deathless  pen  —  ah,  well-away ! 
Why  should  we  stop  at  all  for  what  I  think? 
There  is  enough  in  what  I  chance  to  say. 

152 


It  is  enough  that  we  once  came  together; 
What  is  the  use  of  setting  it  to  rime? 
When  it  is  autumn  do  we  get  spring  weather, 
Or  gather  may  of  harsh  northwindish  time? 

It  is  enough  that  we  once  came  together; 
What  if  the  wind  have  turned  against  the  rain? 
It  is  enough  that  we  once  came  together; 
Time  has  seen  this,  and  will  not  turn  again; 

And  who  are  we,  who  know  that  last  intent, 
To  plague  to-morrow  with  a  testament! 

IN  EXITUM  CUIUSDAM 

On  a  certain  one's  departure 

"  Time's  bitter  flood  "  !     Oh,  that's  all  very  well, 
But  where's  the  old  friend  hasn't  fallen  off, 
Or  slacked  his  hand-grip  when  you,  first  gripped 
fame? 

I  know  your  circle  and  can  fairly  tell 

What  you  have  kept  and  what  you've  left  behind: 

I  know  my  circle  and  I  know  very  well 

How  many  faces  I'd  have  out  of  mind. 


153 


APPARUIT 


Golden  rose  the  house,  in  the  portal  I  saw 
thee,  a  marvel,  carven  in  subtle  stuff,  a 
portent.     Life  died  down  in  the  lamp  and  flickered, 
caught  at  the  wonder. 

Crimson,  frosty  with  dew,  the  roses  bend  where 
thou  afar  moving  in  the  glamorous  sun 
drinkst  in  life  of  earth,  of  the  air,  the  tissue 
golden  about  thee. 

Green  the  ways,  the  breath  of  the  fields  is  thine  there, 
open  lies  the  land,  yet  the  steely  going 
darkly  hast  thou  dared  and  the  dreaded  aether 
parted  before  thee. 

Swift  at  courage  thou  in  the  shell  of  gold,  cast- 
ing a-loose  the  cloak  of  the  body,  earnest 
straight,  then  shone  thine  oriel  and  the  stunned 
light  faded  about  thee. 

Half  the  graven  shoulder,  the  throat  aflash  with 
strands  of  light  inwoven  about  it,  loveli- 
est of  all  things,  frail  alabaster,  ah  me ! 
swift  in  departing, 


154 


L; 


Clothed  in  goldish  weft,  delicately  perfect, 
gone  as  wind !     The  cloth  of  the  magical  hands 
Thou  a  slight  thing,  thou  in  access  of  cunning 
dar'dst  to  assume  this? 


THE  TOMB  AT  AKR  CAAR 

"  I  am  thy  soul,  Nikoptis.     I  have  watched 

These  five  millennia,  and  thy  dead  eyes 

Moved  not,  nor  ever  answer  my  desire, 

And  thy  light  limbs,  wherethrough  I  leapt  aflame, 

Burn  not  with  me  nor  any  saffron  thing. 

See,  the  light  grass  sprang  up  to  pillow  thee, 
And  kissed  thee  with  a  myriad  grassy  tongues; 
But  not  thou  me. 


ave  read  out  the  gold  upon  the  wall, 
nd  wearied  out  my  thought  upon  the  signs, 
d  there  is  no  new  thing  in  all  this  place. 


ave  been  kind.     See,  I  have  left  the  jars  sealed, 
st  thou  shouldst  wake  and  whimper  for  thy  wine. 
And  all  thy  robes  I  have  kept  smooth  on  thee. 


155 


0  thou  unmindful !     How  should  I  forget ! 
—  Even  the  river  many  days  ago, 

The  river,  thou  wast  over  young, 
And  three  souls  came  upon  Thee  — 

And  I  came. 

And  I  flowed  in  upon  thee,  beat  them  off; 

1  have  been  intimate  with  thee,  known  thy  ways. 
Have  I  not  touched  thy  palms  and  finger-tips, 
Flowed  in,  and  through  thee  and  about  thy  heels? 
How  '  came  I  in  '  ?     Was  I  not  thee  and  Thee  ? 

And  no  sun  comes  to  rest  me  in  this  place, 
And  I  am  torn  against  the  jagged  dark, 
And  no  light  beats  upon  me,  and  you  say 
No  word,  day  after  day. 

Oh!  I  could  get  me  out,  despite  the  marks 
And  all  their  crafty  work  upon  the  door, 
Out  through  the  glass-green  fields.   .  .  . 

Yet  it  is  quiet  here : 
I  do  not  go." 


PORTRAIT  D'UNE  FEMME 

Your  mind  and  you  are  our  Sargasso  Sea, 
London  has  swept  about  you  this  score  years 
And  bright  ships  left  you  this  or  that  in  fee: 
Ideas,  old  gossip,  oddments  of  all  things, 
Strange  spars  of  knowledge  and  dimmed  wares  of 

price. 
Great  minds  have   sought  you  —  lacking  someone 

else. 

You   have  been   second  always.     Tragical? 
No.     You  preferred  it  to  the  usual  thing: 
One  dull  man,  dulling  and  uxorious, 
One  average  mind  —  with  one  thought  less,   each 

year. 

Oh,  you  are  patient,  I  have  seen  you  sit 
Hours,  where  something  might  have  floated  up. 
And  now  you  pay  one.     Yes,  you  richly  pay. 
You  are  a  person  of  some  interest,  one  comes  to  you 
And  takes  strange  gain  away: 
Trophies  fished  up;  some  curious  suggestion; 
Fact  that  leads  nowhere;  and  a  tale  for  two, 
Pregnant  with  mandrakes,  or  with  something  else 
That  might  prove  useful  and  yet  never  proves, 
That  never  fits  a  corner  or  shows  use, 
Or  finds  its  hour  upon  the  loom  of  days : 


'57 


. 


The  tarnished,  gaudy,  wonderful  old  work; 
Idols  and  ambergris  and  rare  inlays, 
These  are  your  riches,  your  great  store;  and  ye 
For  all  this  sea-hoard  of  deciduous  things, 
Strange  woods  half  sodden,  and  new  brighter  stuff: 
In  the  slow  float  of  differing  light  and  deep, 
No!  there  is  nothing!     In  the  whole  and  all, 
Nothing  that's  quite  your  own. 
Yet  this  is  you. 


NEW  YORK 

My  City,  my  beloved,  my  white ! 

Ah,  slender, 

Listen!     Listen  to  me,  and  I  will  breathe  into  thee 

a  soul. 
Delicately  upon  the  reed,  attend  me ! 

Now  do  I  know  that  I  am  mad, 

For  here  are  a  million  people  surly  with  traffic; 

This  is  no  maid. 

Neither  could  I  play  upon  any  reed  if  I  had  one. 

My  City,  my  beloved, 

Thou  art  a  maid  with  no  breasts, 


T 


Thou  art  slender  as  a  silver  reed. 
Listen  to  me,  attend  me ! 
And  I  will  breathe  into  thee  a  soul, 
And  thou  shalt  live  for  ever. 


A  GIRL 

The  tree  has  entered  my  hands, 
The  sap  has  ascended  my  arms, 
The  tree  has  grown  in  my  breast  — 
Downward, 
he  branches  grow  out  of  me,  like  arms. 


Tree  you  are, 

Moss  you  are, 

You  are  violets  with  wind  above  them. 

A  child  —  jo  high  —  you  are, 

And  all  this  is  folly  to  the  world. 


"  PHASELLUS  ILLE  " 

'his  papier-mache,  which  you  see,  my  friends, 
Saith  'twas  the  worthiest  of  editors. 
Its  mind  was  made  up  in  "  the  seventies," 
Nor  hath  it  ever  since  changed  that  concoction. 


159 


It  works  to  represent  that  school  of  thought 
Which  brought  the  hair-cloth  chair  to  such  perfec- 
tion, 

Nor  will  the  horrid  threats  of  Bernard  Shaw 
Shake  up  the  stagnant  pool  of  its  convictions; 
Nay,  should  the  "  deathless  voice  of  all  the  world  " 
Speak  once  again  for  its  sole  stimulation, 
'Twould  not  move  it  one  jot  from  left  to  right. 

Come  Beauty  barefoot  from  the  Cyclades, 

She'd  find  a  model  for  St.  Anthony 

In  this  thing's  sure  decorum  and  behaviour. 


AN  OBJECT 

This  thing,  that  hath  a  code  and  not  a  core, 
Hath  set  acquaintance  where  might  be  affections, 
And  nothing  now 
Disturbeth  his  reflections. 


1 60 


QUIES 

This  is  another  of  our  ancient  loves. 

Pass  and  be  silent,  Rullus,  for  the  day 

Hath  lacked  a  something  since  this  lady  passed; 

Hath  lacked  a  something.     'Twas  but  marginal. 


THE  SEAFARER 

(From  the  early  Anglo-Saxon  text) 

May  I  for  my  own  self  song's  truth  reckon, 

Journey's  jargon,  how  I  in  harsh  days 

Hardship  endured  oft. 

Bitter  breast-cares  have  I  abided, 

Known  on  my  keel  many  a  care's  hold, 

And  dire  sea-surge,  and  there  I  oft  spent 

Narrow  nightwatch  nigh  the  ship's  head 

While  she  tossed  close  to  cliffs.     Coldly  afflicted, 

My  feet  were  by  frost  benumbed. 

Chill  its  chains  are;  chafing  sighs 

Hew  my  heart  round  and  hunger  begot 

Mere-weary  mood.     Lest  man  know  not 

That  he  on  dry  land  loveliest  liveth, 

List  how  I,  care-wretched,  on  ice-cold  sea, 

Weathered  the  winter,  wretched  outcast 

Deprived  of  my  kinsmen; 


161 


Hung  with  hard  ice-flakes,  where  hailscur  flew, 
There  I  heard  naught  save  the  harsh  sea 
And  ice-cold  wave,  at  whiles  the  swan  cries, 
Did  for  my  games  the  gannet's  clamour, 
Sea-fowls'  loudness  was  for  me  laughter, 
The  mews'  singing  all  my  mead-drink. 
Storms,  on  the  stone-cliffs  beaten,  fell  on  the  stern 
In  icy  feathers;  full  oft  the  eagle  screamed 
With  spray  on  his  pinion. 

Not  any  protector 

May  make  merry  man  faring  needy. 
This  he  little  believes,  who  aye  in  winsome  life 
Abides  'mid  burghers  some  heavy  business, 
Wealthy  and  wine-flushed,  how  I  weary  oft 
Must  bide  above  brine. 
Neareth  nightshade,  snoweth  from  north, 
Frost  froze  the  land,  hail  fell  on  earth  then, 
Corn  of  the  coldest.     Nathless  there  knocketh  now 
The  heart's  thought  that  I  on  high  streams 
The  salt-wavy  tumult  traverse  alone. 
Moaneth  away  my  mind's  lust 
That  I  fare  forth,  that  I  afar  hence 
Seek  out  a  foreign  fastness. 
For  this  there's  no  mood-lofty  man  over  eartl 
midst, 


162 


Not  though  he  be  given  his  good,  but  will  have  in 

his  youth  greed; 

Nor  his  deed  to  the  daring,  nor  his  king  to  the  faith- 
ful 

But  shall  have  his  sorrow  for  sea-fare 
Whatever  his  lord  will. 

He  hath  not  heart  for  harping,  nor  in  ring-having 
Nor  winsomeness  to  wife,  nor  world's  delight 
Nor  any  whit  else   save  the  wave's  slash, 
Yet  longing  comes  upon  him  to  fare  forth  on  the 

water. 

Bosque  taketh  blossom,  cometh  beauty  of  berries, 
Fields  to  fairness,  land  fares  brisker, 
All  this  admonisheth  man  eager  of  mood, 
The  heart  turns  to  travel  so  that  he  then  thinks 
On  flood-ways  to  be  far  departing. 
Cuckoo  calleth  with  gloomy  crying, 
He  singeth  summerward,  bodeth  sorrow, 
The  bitter  heart's  blood.     Burgher  knows  not  — 
He  the  prosperous  man  —  what  some  perform 
Where  wandering  them  widest  draweth. 
So  that  but  now  my  heart  burst  from  my  breast- 
lock, 

My  mood  'mid  the  mere-flood, 
Over  the  whale's  acre,  would  wander  wide. 
On  earth's  shelter  cometh  oft  to  me, 


163 


Eager  and  ready,  the  crying  lone-flyer, 
Whets  for  the  whale-path  the  heart  irresistibly, 
O'er  tracks  of  ocean;  seeing  that  anyhow 
My  lord  deems  to  me  this  dead  life 
On  loan  and  on  land,   I  believe  not 
That  any  earth-weal  eternal  standeth 
Save  there  be  somewhat  calamitous 
That,  ere  a  man's  tide  go,  turn  it  to  twain. 
Disease  or  oldness  or  sword-hate 
Beats  out  the  breath  from  doom-gripped  body. 
And  for  this,  every  earl  whatever,  for  those  speak- 
ing after  — 

Laud  of  the  living,  boasteth  some  last  word, 
That  he  will  work  ere  he  pass  onward, 
Frame  on  the  fair  earth  'gainst  foes  his  malice, 
Daring  ado,  .  .  . 

So  that  all  men  shall  honour  him  after 
And  his  laud  beyond  them  remain  'mid  the  English, 
Aye,  for  ever,  a  lasting  life's-blast, 
Delight  mid  the  doughty. 

Days  little  durable, 
And  all  arrogance  of  earthen  riches, 
There  come  now  no  kings  nor  Caesars 
Nor  gold-giving  lords  like  those  gone. 
Howe'er  in  mirth  most  magnified, 
Whoe'er  lived  in  life  most  lordliest, 


164 


Dre; 


rear  all  this  excellence,  delights  undurablel 
Waneth  the  watch,  but  the  world  holdeth. 
Tomb  hideth  trouble.     The  blade  is  layed  low. 
Earthly  glory  ageth  and  seareth. 
No  man  at  all  going  the  earth's  gait, 
But  age  fares  against  him,  his  face  paleth, 
Grey-haired  he  groaneth,  knows  gone  companions, 
Lordly  men  are  to  earth  o'ergiven, 
Nor  may  he  then  the  flesh-cover,  whose  life  ceaseth, 
Nor  eat  the  sweet  nor  feel  the  sorry, 
Nor  stir  hand  nor  think  in  mid  heart, 
And  though  he  strew  the  grave  with  gold, 
His  born  brothers,  their  buried  bodies 
Be  an  unlikely  treasure  hoard. 


THE  CLOAK* 

Thou  keep'st  thy  rose-leaf 
Till  the  rose-time  will  be  over, 
Think'st  thou  that  Death  will  kiss  thee? 
Think'st  thou  that  the  Dark  House 

Will  find  thee  such  a  lover 
As  I?     Will  the  new  roses  miss  thee? 

:lepiades,  Julianus  ^Egyptus. 

165 


Prefer  my  cloak  unto  the  cloak  of  dust 
'Neath  which  the  last  year  lies, 

For  thou  shouldst  more  mistrust 
Time  than  my  eyes. 


AN  IMMORALITY 

Sing  we  for  love  and  idleness, 
Naught  else  is  worth  the  having. 

Though  I  have  been  in  many  a  land, 
There  is  naught  else  in  living. 

And  I  would  rather  have  my  sweet, 
Though  rose-leaves  die  of  grieving, 

Than  do  high  deeds  in  Hungary 
To  pass  all  men's  believing. 


166 


DIEU!  QU'IL  LA  FAIT 

From  Charles  D'Orleans 
For  music 

God !  that  mad'st  her  well  regard  her, 
How  she  is  so  fair  and  bonny; 
For  the  great  charms  that  are  upon  her 
Ready  are  all  folk  to  reward  her. 

Who  could  part  him  from  her  borders 
When  spells  are  alway  renewed  on  her? 
God!  that  mad'st  her  well  regard  her, 
How  she  is  so  fair  and  bonny. 

From  here  to  there  to  the  sea's  border, 
Dame  nor  damsel  there's  not  any 
Hath  of  perfect  charms  so  many. 
Thoughts  of  her  are  of  dream's  order: 
God!  that  mad'st  her  well  regard  her. 


SALVE  PONTIFEX 

(A.  C.  S.) 

One  after  one  they  leave  thee, 

High  Priest  of  lacchus, 

Intoning  thy  melodies  as  winds  intone 

The  whisperings  of  leaves  on  sunlit  days. 


And  the  sands  are  many 
And  the  seas  beyond  the  sands  are  one 
In  ultimate,  so  we  here  being  many 
Are  unity;  nathless  thy  compeers, 

Knowing  thy  melody, 
Lulled  with  the  wine  of  thy  music 
Go  seaward  silently,  leaving  thee  sentinel 
O'er  all  the  mysteries, 

High  Priest  of  lacchus. 
For  the  lines  of  life  lie  under  thy  fingers, 
And  above  the  vari-coloured  strands 
Thine  eyes  look  out  unto  the  infinitude 
Of  the  blue  waves  of  heaven, 
And  even  as  Triplex  Sisterhood 
Thou  fingerest  the  threads  knowing  neither 
Cause  nor  the  ending, 

High  Priest  of  lacchus, 
Draw'st  forth  a  multiplicity 
Of  strands,  and,  beholding 
The  colour  thereof,  raisest  thy  voice 
Towards  the  sunset, 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus ! 
And  out  of  the  secrets  of  the  inmost  mysteries 
Thou  chantest  strange   far-sourced  canticles: 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus! 
Life  and  the  ways  of  Death  her 


168 


Twin-born  sister,  that  is  life's  counterpart, 

And  of  night  and  the  winds  of  night; 

Silent  voices  ministering  to  the  souls 

Of  hamadryads  that  hold  council  concealed 

In  streams  and  tree-shadowing 

Forests  on  hill  slopes, 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus, 
All  the  manifold  mystery 
Thou  makest  a  wine  of  song, 
And  maddest  thy  following  even 
With  visions  of  great  deeds 
And  their  futility, 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus! 
Though  thy  co-novices  are  bent  to  the  scythe 
Of  the  magian  wind  that  is  voice  of  Persephone, 
Leaving  thee  solitary,  master  of  initiating 
Maenads  that  come  through  the 
Vine-entangled  ways  of  the  forest 
Seeking,  out  of  all  the  world, 

Madness  of  lacchus, 

at  being  skilled  in  the  secrets  of  the  double  cup 
They  might  turn  the  dead  of  the  world 
Into  paeans, 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus, 
reathed  with  the  glory  of  thy  years  of  creating 


169 


Entangled  music, 

Breathe ! 

Now  that  the  evening  cometh  upon  thee, 
Breathe  upon  us,  that  low-bowed  and  exultant 
Drink  wine  of  lacchus,  that  since  the  conquering 
Hath  been  chiefly  contained  in  the  numbers 
Of  them  that,  even  as  thou,  have  woven 
Wicker  baskets  for  grape  clusters 
Wherein  is  concealed  the  source  of  the  vintage, 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus, 
Breathe  thou  upon  us 

Thy  magic  in  parting! 
Even  as  thy  co-novices, 
At  being  mingled  with  the  sea, 
While  yet  thou  madest  thy  canticles 
Serving  upright  before  the  altar 
That  is  bound  about  with  shadows 
Of  dead  years  wherein  thy  lacchus 
Looked  not  upon  the  hills,  that  being 
Uncared  for,  praised  not  him  in  entirety. 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus, 
Being  now  near  to  the  border  of  the  sands 
Where  the  sapphire  girdle  of  the  sea 

Encinctureth  the  maiden 
Persephone,  released  for  the  spring, 
Look!     Breathe  upon  us 


170 


The  wonder  of  the  thrice  encinctured  mystery 
Whereby  thou  being  full  of  years  art  young, 
Loving  even  this  lithe  Persephone 
That  is  free  for  the  seasons  of  plenty; 
Whereby  thou  being  young  art  old 
And  shalt  stand  before  this  Persephone 

Whom  thou  lovest, 
In  darkness,  even  at  that  time 
That  she  being  returned  to  her  husband 
Shall  be  queen  and  a  maiden  no  longer, 
Wherein  thou  being  neither  old  nor  young 
Standing  on  the  verge  of  the  sea 
Shall  pass  from  being  sand, 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus, 
And  becoming  wave 

Shalt  encircle  all  sands, 
Being  transmuted  through  all 
The  girdling  of  the  sea. 

O  High  Priest  of  lacchus, 
Breathe  thou  upon  us  I 

NOTE. —  This   apostrophe  was  written  three  years  before   Swin- 
burne's death.     Balderdash  but  let  it  stay  for  the  rhythm. —  E.  P. 


171 


AOPIA 

Be  in  me  as  the  eternal  moods 

of  the  bleak  wind,   and  not 
As  transient  things  are  — 

gaiety  of  flowers. 
Have  me  in  the  strong  loneliness 

of  sunless  cliffs 
And  of  grey  waters. 

Let    the    gods    speak    softly    of    ui 
In  days  hereafter, 

The  shadowy  flowers  of  Orcus 
Remember  Thee. 


THE  NEEDLE 

Come,  or  the  stellar  tide  will  slip  away. 
Eastward  avoid  the  hour  of  its  decline, 
Now!  for  the  needle  trembles  in  my  soul! 

Here  have  we  had  our  vantage,  the  good  hour. 
Here  we  have  had  our  day,  your  day  and  mine. 
Come  now,  before  this  power 
That  bears  us  up,  shall  turn  against  the  pole. 


172 


Mock  not  the  flood  of  stars,  the  thing's  to  be. 
O  Love,  come  now,  this  land  turns  evil  slowly. 
The  waves  bore  in,  soon  will  they  bear  away. 

The  treasure  is  ours,  make  we  fast  land  with  it. 

Move  we  and  take  the  tide,  with  its  next  favour, 

Abide 

Under  some  neutral  force 

Until  this  course  turneth  aside. 


SUB  MARE 

It  is,  and  is  not,  I  am  sane  enough, 

Since  you  have  come  this  place  has  hovered  round 

me, 

This  fabrication  built  of  autumn  roses, 
Then  there's  a  goldish  colour,  different. 

And  one  gropes  in  these  things  as  delicate 
Algae  reach  up  and  out  beneath 
Pale  slow  green  surgings  of  the  underwave, 
'Mid  these  things  older  than  the  names  they  have, 
'hese  things  that  are  familiars  of  the  god. 


PLUNGE 

I  would  bathe  myself  in  strangeness: 

These  comforts  heaped  upon  me,  smother  me 

I  burn,  I  scald  so  for  the  new, 

New  friends,  new  faces, 

Places ! 

Oh,  to  be  out  of  this, 

This  that  is  all  I  wanted 

—  Save  the  new. 
And  you, 

Love,  you  the  much,  the  more  desired ! 
Do  I  not  loathe  all  walls,  streets,  stones, 
All  mire,  mist,  all  fog, 
All  ways  of  traffic? 

You,  I  would  have  flow  over  me  like  water. 
Oh,  to  be  out  of  this ! 
Grass,  and  low  fields,  and  hills, 
And  sun, 
Oh,  sun  enough! 
Out  and  alone,  among  some 
Alien  people ! 


A  VIRGINAL 

No,  no  !     Go  from  me.     I  have  left  her  lately. 
I  will  not  spoil  my  sheath  with  lesser  brightness, 
For  my  surrounding  air  has  a  new  lightness; 
Slight  are  her  arms,  yet  they  have  bound  me  straitly 
And  left  me  cloaked  as  with  a  gauze  of  aether; 
As  with  sweet  leaves ;  as  with  a  subtle  clearness. 
Oh,  I  have  picked  up  magic  in  her  nearness 
To  sheathe  me  half  in  half  the  things  that  sheathe 
her. 

No,  no!  Go  from  me.  I  have  still  the  flavour, 
Soft  as  spring  wind  that's  come  from  birchen  bowers. 
Green  come  the  shoots,  aye  April  in  the  branches, 
As  winter's  wound  with  her  sleight  hand  she 

staunches, 

Hath  of  the  tress  a  likeness  of  the  savour: 
As  white  their  bark,  so  white  this  lady's  hours. 


PAN  IS  DEAD 


"  Pan  is  dead.     Great  Pan  is  dead. 
Ah !  bow  your  heads,  ye  maidens  all, 
And  weave  ye  him  his  coronal." 


'  There  is  no  summer  in  the  leaves , 
And  withered  are  the  sedges; 

How  shall  we  weave  a  coronal, 
Or  gather  floral  pledges?" 

'  That  I  may  not  say,  Ladies. 
Death  was  ever  a  churl. 
That  I  may  not  say,  Ladies. 
How  should  he  show  a  reason, 
That  he  has  taken  our  Lord  away 
Upon  such  hollow  season?  " 


THE  PICTURE* 

The  eyes  of  this  dead  lady  speak  to  me, 

For  here  was  love,  was  not  to  be  drowned  out, 

And  here  desire,  not  to  be  kissed  away. 

The  eyes  of  this  dead  lady  speak  to  me. 

*"  Venus  Reclining,"  by  Jacopo  del  Sellaio  (1442-93) 


176 


OF  JACOPO  DEL  SELLAIO 

This  man  knew  out  the  secret  ways  of  love, 

No  man  could  paint  such  things  who  did  not  know. 

And  now  she's  gone,  who  was  his  Cyprian, 
And  you  are  here,  who  are  "  The  Isles  "  to  me. 

And  here's  the  thing  that  lasts  the  whole  thing  out 
The  eyes  of  this  dead  lady  speak  to  me. 


THE  RETURN 


See,  they  return;  ah,  see  the  tentative 

Movements,  and  the  slow  feet, 

The  trouble  in  the  pace  and  the  uncertain 

Wavering! 

See,  they  return,  one,  and  by  one, 
With  fear,  as  half-awakened; 
As  if  the  snow  should  hesitate 
And  murmur  in  the  wind, 

and  half  turn  back; 
These  were  the  "  Wing' d-with- Awe, " 
Inviolable. 


177 


Gods  of  the  winged  shoe! 
With  them  the  silver  hounds, 

sniffing  the  trace  of  air  I 

Haie!     Haie! 

These  were  the  swift  to  harry; 
These  the  keen-scented; 
These  were  the  souls  of  blood. 


Slow  on  the  leash, 


pallid  the  leash-men 


178 


THREE  CANTOS 


THREE  CANTOS  OF  A  POEM  OF  SOME 
LENGTH 

An  earlier  version  of  these  Cantos  appeared  in  Poetry  during 
June,  July  and  August,  1917.  Most  of  the  poems  in  the  section 
headed  "  Lustra "  had  appeared  there  at  earlier  dates.  To  the 
editors  of  this  magazine,  and  of  the  others  where  his  poems  have 
appeared,  the  author  wishes  to  make  due  acknowledgment. 


A 


Hang    it    all,    there    can    be    but    the    one    "  Sor- 

dello," 
But  say  I  want  to,  say  I  take  your  whole  bag  of 

tricks, 
Let  in  your  quirks  and  tweeks,  and  say  the  thing's 

an  art-form, 

Your  "  Sordello,"  and  that  the  "  modern  world  " 
Needs  such  a  rag-bag  to  stuff  all  its  thought  in; 
Say  that  I  dump  my  catch,  shiny  and  silvery 
s  fresh  sardines  flapping  and  slipping  on  the  mar- 
ginal cobbles? 

I  stand  before  the  booth  (the  speech),  but  the  truth 
Is  inside  this  discourse :  this  booth  is  full  of  the  mar- 
row of  wisdom. 
Give  up  the  intaglio  method? 

Tower  by  tower, 
Red-brown  the  rounded  bases,  and  the  plan 
Follows  the  builder's  whim;  Beaucaire's  slim  gray 
Leaps  from  the  stubby  base  of  Altaforte  — 
Mohammed's  windows,  for  the  Alcazar 
Has  such  a  garden,  split  by  a  tame  small  stream  — 
The  Moat  is  ten  yards  wide,  the  inner  court-yard 
Half  a-swim  with  mire. 
Trunk-hose  ? 


181 


ave 


There  are  not.     The  rough  men  swarm  out 
In  robes  that  are  half  Roman,  half  like  the  Knave 

of  Hearts. 
And  I  discern  your  story: 

Peire  Cardinal 
Was  half  fore-runner  of  Dante.     Arnaut's  the  trick 
Of  the  unfinished  address, 

And  half  your  dates  are  out;  you  mix  your  eras; 
For  that  great  font,  Sordello  sat  beside  — 
'Tis  an  immortal  passage,  but  the  font 
Is  some  two  centuries  outside  the  picture  — 
And  no  matter. 

Ghosts  move  about  me  patched  with  histories. 
You  had  your  business :  to  set  out  so  much  thought, 
So  much  emotion,  and  call  the  lot  "  Sordello." 
Worth  the  evasion,  the  setting  figures  up 
And  breathing  life  upon  them. 

Has  it  a  place  in  music?     And  your:  "  Appear  Ve- 
rona!"? 

I  walk  the  airy  street, 

See  the  small  cobbles  flare  with  the  poppy  spoil. 
'Tis  your  "  Great  Day,"  the  Corpus  Domini, 
And  all  my  chosen  and  peninsular  village 
Has  spread  this  scarlet  blaze  upon  its  lane, 
Oh,  before  I  was  up, —  with  poppy-flowers. 
Mid- June,  and  up  and  out  to  the  half  ruined  chapel 


182 


Not  the  old  place  at  the  height  of  the  rocks 

But  that  splay  barn-like  church,  the  Renaissance 

Had  never  quite  got  into  trim  again. 

As  well  begin  here,  here  began  Catullus : 

"  Home  to  sweet  rest,  and  to  the  waves  deep  laugh- 

ter," 

The  laugh  they  wake  amid  the  border  rushes. 
This  is  our  home,  the  trees  are  full  of  laughter, 
And  the  storms  laugh  loud,  breaking  the  riven  waves 
On  square-shaled  rocks,  and  here  the  sunlight 
Glints  on  the  shaken  waters,  and  the  rain 
Comes  forth  with  delicate  tread,  walking  from  Isola 

Garda, 

Lo  Soleils  plovil. 

It  is  the  sun  rains,  and  a  spatter  of  fire 

Darts  from  the  "  Lydian  "  ripples,  lacus  undae, 

And  the  place  is  full  of  spirits,  not  lemures, 

Not  dark  and  shadow-wet  ghosts,  but  ancient  living, 

Wood-white,  smooth  as  the  inner-bark,  and  firm  of 

aspect 
And  all  a-gleam  with  colour? 

Not  a-gleam 

But  coloured  like  the  lake  and  olive  leaves, 
GLAUKOPOS,   clothed  like  the  poppies,  wearing 

golden  greaves, 


183 


Light  on  the  air.     Are  they  Etruscan  gods? 

The  air  is  solid  sunlight,  apricus. 

Sun-fed  we  dwell  there  (we  in  England  now) 

For  Sirmio  serves  my  whim,  better  than  Asolo, 

Yours  and  unseen.     Your  palace  step? 

My  stone  seat  was  the  Dogana's  vulgarest  curb 

And  there  were  not  "  those  girls,"  there  was  one 
flare, 

One  face,  'twas  all  I  ever  saw,  but  it  was  real 

And  I  can  no  more  say  what  shape  it  was  .  , 

But  she  was  young,  too  young. 

True,  it  was  Venice, 

And  at  Florian's  under  the  North  arcade 

I  have  seen  other  faces,  and  had  my  rolls  for  break- 
fast, 

Drifted  at  night  and  seen  the  lit,  gilt  cross-beams 

Glare  from  the  Morosini. 

And  for  what  it's  worth 

I  have  my  background;  and  you  had  your  back- 
ground, 

Watched  "  the  soul,"  Sordello's  soul,  flare  up 

And  lap  up  life,  and  leap  "  to  th'  Empyrean  "; 

Worked  out  the  form,  meditative,  semi-dramatic, 

Semi-epic  story;  and  what's  left? 

Pre-Daun-Chaucer,  Pre-Boccacio  ?     Not  Arnaut, 

NotUc  St  Circ. 


184 


Gods  float  in  the  azure  air, 

Bright  gods  and  Tuscan,  back  before  dew  was  shed; 

It  is  a  world  like  Puvis'  ? 

Never  so  pale,  my  friend, 

'Tis  the  first  light  —  not  half-light  —  Panisks 

And  oak-girls  and  the  Maelids  have  all  the  wood; 
Our  olive  Sirmio 

Lies  in  its  burnished  mirror,  and  the  Mounts  Balde 
and  Riva 

Are  alive  with  song,  and  all  the  leaves  are  full  of 
voices. 

"  Non  e  fuggi." 

"  It  is  not  gone."     Metastasio 

Is  right,  we  have  that  world  about  us. 

And  the  clouds  bowe  above  the  lake,  and  there  are 
folk  upon  them 

Going  their  windy  ways,  moving  by  Riva, 

By  the  western  shore,  far  as  Lonato, 

And  the  water  is  full  of  silvery  almond-white  swim- 
mers, 

The  silvery  water  glazes  the  upturned  nipple. 

"  When  Atlas  sat  down  with  his  astrolabe, 
He  brother  to  Prometheus,  physicist." 

We  let  Ficino 

Start  us  our  progress,  say  it  was  Moses'  birth  year? 


Exult  with  Shang  in  squatness?     The  sea-monster 

Bulges  the  squarish  bronzes. 

Daub  out,  with  blue  of  scarabs,  Egypt, 

Green  veins  in  the  turquoise  ? 

Or  gray  gradual  steps 

Lead  up  beneath  flat  sprays  of  heavy  cedars: 
Temple  of  teak-wood,  and  the  gilt-brown  arches 
Triple  in  tier,  banners  woven  by  wall, 
Fine  screens  depicted :  sea-waves  curled  high, 
Small  boats  with  gods  upon  them, 
Bright  flame  above  the  river:     Kuanon, 
Footing  a  boat  that's  but  one  lotus  petal, 
With  some  proud  four-square  genius 
Leading  along,  one  hand  upraised  for  gladness, 
Saying,  "  'Tis  she,  his  friend,  the  mighty  Goddess. 
Sing  hymns,  ye  reeds,  and  all  ye  roots  and  herons 

and  swans,  be  glad. 

Ye  gardens  of  the  nymphs,  put  forth  your  flowers." 
What  have  I  of  this  life? 

Or  even  of  Guido? 

A  pleasant  lie  that  I  knew  Or  San  Michaele, 
Believe  the  tomb  he  leapt  was  Julia  Laeta's, 
Do  not  even  know  which  sword  he'd  with  him  in  the 

street-charge. 

I  have  but  smelt  this  life,  a  whiff  of  it, 
The  box  of  scented  wood 


186 


Recalls  cathedrals.     Shall  I  claim; 
Confuse  my  own  phantastikon 
Or  say  the  filmy  shell  that  circumscribes  me 
Contains  the  actual  sun; 

confuse  the  thing  I  see 
With  actual  gods  behind  me? 

Are  they  gods  behind  me  ? 
Worlds  we  have,  how  many  worlds  we  have. 

If  Botticelli 

Brings  her  ashore  on  that  great  cockle-shell, 
His  Venus  (Simonetta?) ,  and  Spring 
And  Aufidus  fill  all  the  air 
With  their  clear-outlined  blossoms? 
World  enough.     Behold,  I  say,  she  comes 
"  Apparelled  like  the  Spring,  Graces  her  subjects  " 

("Pericles"), 

Such  worlds  enough  we  have,  have  brave  decors 
And  from  these  like  we  guess  a  soul  for  man 
And  build  him  full  of  aery  populations. 

(Panting  and  Faustus), 
Mantegna  a  sterner  line,  and  the  new  world  about 

us: 
Barred  lights,  great  flares,  and  write  to  paint,  not 

music, 
O  Casella. 


187 


II 

O  "  Virgilio  mio," 

Send  out  your  thought  upon  the  Mantuan  palace, 

Drear  waste,  great  halls;  pigment  flakes  from  the 

stone ; 

Forlorner  quarter: 
Silk  tatters  still  in  the  frame,  Gonzaga's  splendour, 
Where  do  we  come  upon  the  ancient  people, 
Or  much  or  little, 

Where  do  we  come  upon  the  ancient  people? 
"  All  that  I  know  is  that  a  certain  star  " — 
All  that  I  know  of  one,  Joios,  Tolosan, 
Is  that  in  middle  May,  going  along 
A  scarce  discerned  path,  turning  aside 
In   "  level  poplar  lands,"   he   found  a  flower,   and 

wept; 

"  Y  a  la  primera  flor,"  he  wrote, 
u  Qu'ieu  trobei,  tornei  em  plor." 
One  stave  of  it,  I've  lost  the  copy  I  had  of  it  in  Paris, 
Out  of  a  blue  and  gilded  manuscript: 
Couci's  rabbits,  a  slim  fellow  throwing  dice, 
Purported  portraits  serving  in  capitals. 
Joios  we  have,  by  such  a  margent  stream, 
He  strayed  in  the  field,  wept  for  a  flare  of  colour 
When  Coeur  de  Lion  was  before  Chalus; 
Arnaut's  a  score  of  songs,  a  wry  sestina; 


188 


, 


The  rose-leaf  casts  her  dew  on  the  ringing  glass, 
Dolmetsch  will  build  our  age  in  witching  music, 
Viols  da  Gamba,  tabors,  tympanons. 

Yin-yo  laps  in  the  reeds,  my  guest  departs, 

The  maple  leaves  blot  up  their  shadows, 

The  sky  is  full  of  Autumn, 

We  drink  our  parting  in  saki. 

Out  of  the  night  comes  troubling  lute  music, 

And  we  cry  out,  asking  the  singer's  name, 

And  get  this  answer : 

"  Many  a  one 

Brought  me  rich  presents,  my  hair  was  full  of  jade, 
And  my  slashed  skirts  were  drenched  in  the  secret 

dyes, 
Well  dipped  in  crimson,   and  sprinkled  with  rare 

wines; 

was  well  taught  my  arts  at  Ga-ma-rio 
And  then  one  year  I  faded  out  and  married." 
The  lute-bowl  hid  her  face.     We  heard  her  weeping. 


Society,  her  sparrows,  Venus'  sparrows. 

Catullus  hung  on  the  phrase  (played  with  it  as  Mal- 

larme 

Played  for  a  fan :      ;t  Reveuse  pour  que  je  plonge.")  ; 
Wrote  out  his  crib  from  Sappho : 


God's  peer,  yea  and  the  very  gods  are  under  him 

Facing  thee,  near  thee;  and  my  tongue  is  heavy, 

And  along  my  veins  the  fire ;  and  the  night  is 

Thrust  down  upon  me. 

That  was  one  way  of  love,  flamma  demanat, 

And  in  a  year:      l<  I  love  her  as  a  father," 

And  scarce   a  year,   u  Your  words   are  written 

water," 

And  in  ten  moons :     "  O  Caelius,  Lesbia  ilia, 
Caelius,  Lesbia,  our  Lesbia,  that  Lesbia 
Whom  Catullus  once  loved  more 
Than  his  own  soul  and  all  his  friends, 
Is  now  the  drab  of  every  lousy  Roman  " ; 
So  much  for  him  who  puts  his  trust  in  woman. 

Dordoigne !     When  I  was  there 

There  came  a  centaur,  spying  the  land 

And  there  were  nymphs  behind  him; 

Or  procession  on  procession  by  Salisbury, 

Ancient  in  various  days,  long  years  between  them; 

Ply  over  ply  of  life  still  wraps  the  earth  here. 

Catch  at  Dordoigne ! 

Vicount  St.  Antoni  — 
"  D'amor  tug  miei  cossir  " —  hight  Raimon  Jordans 
Of  land  near  Caortz.     The  Lady  of  Pena 
"  Gentle  and  highly  prized." 


190 


.. 


And  he  was  good  at  arms  and  bos  trobaire, 
"  Thou  art  the  pool  of  worth,  flood-land  of  pleasure, 
And  all  my  heart  is  bound  about  with  love, 
As  rose  in  trellis  that  is  bound  over  and  over  " ; 
Thus  were  they  taken  in  love  beyond  all  measure. 
But  the  Viscount  Pena 
Went  making  war  into  an  hostile  country, 
And  was  sore  wounded.     The  news  held  him  dead, 
"  And  at  this  news  she  had  great  grief  and  teen," 
And  gave  the  church  such  wax  for  his  recovery 
That  he  recovered, 

"  And  at  this  news  she  had  great  grief  and  teen  " 
And  fell  a-moping,  dismissed  St.  Antoni, 
'  Thus  was  there  more  than  one  in  deep  distress," 
So  ends  that  novel.     Here  the  blue  Dordoigne 
Placid  between  white  cliffs,  pale 
As  the  background  of  a  Leonardo.     Elis  of  Mont- 
fort 

Then  sent  him  her  invitations  (wife  of  de  Gordon). 
It  juts  into  the  sky,  Gordon  that  is, 
Like  a  thin  spire.     Blue  night  pulled  down  about  it 
Like  tent-flaps  or  sails  close  hauled.     When  I  was 

there, 

La  Noche  de  San  Juan,  a  score  of  players 
Were  walking  about  the  streets  in  masquerade, 
Pike-staves  and  paper  helmets,  and  the  booths 


191 


)S, 

^M 


Were  scattered  align,  the  rag  ends  of  the  fair. 

False  arms,  true  arms: 

A  flood  of  people  storming  about  Spain: 

My  Cid  rode  up  to  Burgos, 
Up  to  the  studded  gate  between  two  towers, 
Beat  with  his  lance  butt.     A  girl  child  of  nine  years 
Comes  to  the  shrine-like  platform  in  the  wall, 
Lisps  out  the  words  a-whisper,  the  King's  writ: 
Let  no  man  speak  to  Diaz  (Ruy  Diaz,  Myo  Cid) 
Or  give  him  help  or  food,  on  pain  of  death: 
His  heart  upon  a  pike,  his  eyes  torn  out,  his  goods 

sequestered. 
Cid  from  Bivar,  from  empty  perches  of  dispersed 

hawks, 

From  empty  presses, 

Came  riding  with  his  company  up  the  great  hill 
(Afe  Minayaf)  to  Burgos  in  the  Spring, 
And  thence  to  fighting,  to  down-throw  of  Moors 
And  to  Valencia  rode  he.     By  the  beard!     Muy 

velidaf 

Of  onrush  of  lances,  of  splintered  staves 
Riven  and  broken  casques,  dismantled  castles; 
Of  painted  shields  split  up,  blazons  hacked  off, 
Piled  men  and  bloody  rivers.     Or 
"  Of  sombre  light  upon  reflected  armour  " 
When  De  las  Nieblas  sails  • — 


192 


"  Y  dar  nueva  lumbre  las  armas  y  hierros  " — 
And  portents  in  the  wind,  a  pressing  air; 
Full  many  a  fathomed  sea-change  in  the  eyes 
That  sought  with  him  the  salt  sea  victories, 
Rumble  of  balladist. 

Another  gate  : 

And  Kumasaka's  ghost  comes  back  to  explain 
How  well  the  young  man  fenced  who  ended  him. 
Another  gate : 

The  kernelled  walls  of  Toro,  las  almenas, 
Afield,  a  king  come  in  an  unjust  cause, 
Atween  the  chinks  aloft  flashes  the  armoured  figure, 
"  Muy  lindal  ",  "  Helen!  ",  "  a  star," 

Lights  the  king's  features  .  .   . 
"  No  use,  my  liege.     She  is  your  highness'  sister," 
Breaks  in  Ancures. 

"  Mai  fuego  s'enciende!  " 
Such  are  the  gestes  of  war. 

A  tire-woman, 

urt  sinecure,  the  court  of  Portugal, 
And  the  young  prince  loved  her,  Pedro, 
Called  later,  Cruel.     Jealousy,  two  stabbed  her, 
Courtiers,  with  king's  connivance. 
And  he,  the  prince,  kept  quiet  a  space  of  years. 
And  came  to  reign,  after  uncommon  quiet, 
And  had  his  will  upon  the  dagger-players : 


193 


A  wedding  ceremonial :  he  and  the  dug-up  corpse  in 

cerements. 

Who  winked  at  murder  kisses  the  dead  hand, 
Does  loyal  homage 

"  Que  despois  de  ser  morta  foy  Rainha. 
Dig  up  Camoens : 

"  That  once  as  Proserpine 

Gatheredst  thy  soul's  light  fruit,  and  every  blindness; 
Thy  Enna  the  flary  mead-land  of  Mondego, 
Long  art  thou  sung  by  Maidens  in  Mondego." 
What  have  we  now  of  her,  his  "  linda  Ignez  "\ 
Houtmans  in  jail  for  debt  in  Lisbon,  how  long  after, 
Contrives  a  company,  the  Dutch  eat  Portugal, 
Follow  her  ships  tracks.     Roemer  Vischer's  daugh- 
ters 

Talking  some  Greek,  dally  with  glass  engraving: 
Vondel,  the  Eglantine,  Dutch  Renaissance. 
The  old  tale  out  of  fashion,  daggers  gone, 
And  Gaby  wears  Braganza  on  her  throat, 
Another  pearl,  tied  to  a  public  gullet. 

I  knew  a  man,  but  where  'twas  is  no  matter, 
Born  on  a  farm,  he  hankered  after  painting, 
His  father  kept  him  at  work,  no  luck, 
Married  and  got  four  sons, 


194 


1 


Three  died,  the  fourth  he  sent  to  Paris.     And  this 
son: 

Ten  years  of  Julians'  and  the  ateliers, 

Ten  years  of  life,  his  pictures  in  the  salons, 

Name  coming  in  the  press; 

and  when  I  knew  him : 

Back  once  again  in  middle  Indiana, 

Acting  as  usher  in  the  theatre, 

Painting  the  local  drug-shop  and  soda  bars, 

The  local  doctor's  fancy  for  a  mantel-piece: 

Sheep!  jabbing  the  wool  upon  their  flea-bit  backs. 

"  Them  sheep!     Them  goddamd  sheep! !  "     Ador- 
ing Puvis, 

Giving  his  family  back  what  they  had  spent  on  him, 

Talking  Italian  cities, 

Local  excellence  at  Perugia ; 

dreaming  his  renaissance, 

Take  my  Sordello ! 

Ill 

Another  one,  half-cracked :     John  Heydon, 

Worker  of  miracles,  dealer  in  levitation, 

"  Servant  of  God  and  secretary  of  nature," 

The  half  transparent  forms,  in  trance  at  Bulverton: 

"  Decked  all  in  green,"  with  sleeves  of  yellow  silk 

Slit  to  the  elbow,  slashed  with  various  purples, 


195 


(Thus  in  his  vision)      Her  eyes  were  green  as  glass, 
Her  foot  was  leaf-like,  and  she  promised  him, 
Dangling  a  chain  of  emeralds,  promised  him 
The  way  of  holiest  wisdom. 

"  Omniformis 

Omnis  intellectus  est  " :  thus  he  begins 
By  spouting  half  of  Psellus;  no,  not  "  Daemonibus, 
But  Porphyry's  "  Chances,"  the  I3th  chapter, 
That  every  intellect  is  omniform. 
"  A  daemon  is  a  substance  in  the  locus  of  souls." 
Munching  Ficino's  mumbling  Platonists. 


Valla,  more  earth  and  sounder  rhetoric, 

Prefacing  praise  to  his  Pope,  Nicholas: 

A  man  of  parts  skilled  in  the  subtlest  sciences; 

A  patron  of  the  arts,  of  poetry;  and  of  a  fine  discern- 
ment. 

A  catalogue,  his  jewels  of  conversation. 

"  Know  then  the  Roman  speech:  a  sacrament  " 

Spread  for  the  nations,  eucharist  of  wisdom, 

Bread  of  the  liberal  arts. 

Ha !     Sir  Blancatz, 

Sordello  would  have  your  heart  up,  give  it  to  all 
princes; 

Valla,  the  heart  of  Rome, 

sustaining  speech, 


196 


Set  out  before  the  people.     "  Nee  bonus 
Christianus  "    (in  the  Elegantiae)    "  ac  bonus  Tul- 

lianus." 
Shook  the  church.     Marius,   Du  Bellay,  wept  for 

the  buildings; 

Baldassar  Castiglione  saw  Raphael 
44  Lead  back  the  soul  into  its  dead,  waste  dwelling," 
Laniato  corpore.     Lorenzo  Valla 
"  Broken  in  middle  life?     Bent  to  submission? 
Took  a  fat  living  from  the  Papacy  " 
(That's  in  Villari,  but  Burckhardt's  statement's  dif- 
ferent) . 

"  More  than  the  Roman  city  the  Roman  speech  " 
Holds  fast  its  part  among  the  ever  living. 
"  Not  by  the  eagles  only  was  Rome  measured." 
"  Wherever    the    Roman    speech    was,    there    was 

Rome." 

Wherever  the  speech  crept,  there  was  mastery, 
Spoke  with  the  law's  voice,  while  your  greek  logi- 
cians. .  .  . 

More  greeks  than  one !     Doughty's  "  Divine  Ho- 


meros  " 


Came     before     sophistry.     Justinopolitan,     uncata- 

logued, 
One  Andreas  Divus  gave  him  in  latin, 


197 


In  Officina  Wecheli,  M.D.  three  "  X  s."  eight, 

Caught  up  his  cadence,  word  and  syllable : 

u  Down  to  the  ships  we  went,  set  mast  and  sail, 

Black  keel  and  beasts  for  bloody  sacrifice, 

Weeping  we  went." 

I've  strained  my  ear  for  -ensa,  -ombra,  and  -ensa, 

And  cracked  my  wit  on  delicate  canzoni, 

Here's  but  rough  meaning: 
"  And   then   went   down   to   the   ship,    set  keel  to 

breakers, 

Forth  on  the  godly  sea, 
We  set  up  mast  and  sail  on  the  swart  ship, 
Sheep  bore  we  aboard  her,  and  our  bodies  also, 
Heavy  with  weeping;  and  winds  from  sternward 
Bore  us  out  onward  with  bellying  canvas, 
Circe's  this  craft,  the  trim-coifed  goddess. 
Then  sat  we  amidships  —  wind  jamming  the  tiller  — 
Thus  with  stretched  sail 

we  went  over  sea  till  day's  end. 
Sun  to  his  slumber,  shadows  o'er  all  the  ocean, 
Came  we  then  to  the  bounds  of  deepest  water, 
To  the  Kimmerian  lands  and  peopled  cities 
Covered  with  close-webbed  mist,  unpierced  ever 
With  glitter  of  sun-rays, 
Nor  with  stars  stretched,  nor  looking  back  from 

heaven, 


198 


Swartest  night  stretched  over  wretched  men  there, 

The  ocean  flowing  backward,  came  we  then  to  the 
place 

Aforesaid  by  Circe. 

Here  did  they  rites,  Perimedes  and  Eurylochus, 

And  drawing  sword  from  my  hip 

I  dug  the  ell-square  pitkin, 

Poured  we  libations  unto  each  the  dead, 

First  mead  and  then  sweet  wine,  water  mixed  with 
white  flour, 

Then  prayed  I  many  a  prayer  to  the  sickly  death's- 
heads, 

As  set  in  Ithaca,  sterile  bulls  of  the  best 

For  sacrifice,  heaping  the  pyre  with  goods. 

Sheep,  to  Tiresias  only;  black  and  a  bell  sheep. 

Dark  blood  flowed  in  the  fosse, 

Souls  out  of  Erebus,  cadaverous  dead, 

Of  brides,  of  youths,  and  of  much-bearing  old; 

Virgins  tender,  souls  stained  with  recent  tears, 

Many  men  mauled  with  bronze  lance-heads, 

Battle  spoil,  bearing  yet  dreary  arms, 

These  many  crowded  about  me, 

With  shouting.  Pallor  upon  me,  cried  to  my  men 
for  more  beasts. 

Slaughtered  the  herds,  sheep  slain  of  bronze, 

Poured  ointment,  cried  to  the  gods, 


199 


To  Pluto  the  strong,  and  praised  Proserpine, 

Unsheathed  the  narrow  sword, 

I  sat  to  keep  off  the  impetuous,  impotent  dead 

Till  I  should  hear  Tiresias. 

But  first  Elpenor  came,  our  friend  Elpenor, 

Unburied,  cast  on  the  wide  earth, 

Limbs  that  we  left  in  the  house  of  Circe, 

Unwept,  unwrapped  in  sepulchre,  since  toils  urged 

other. 

Pitiful  spirit,  and  I  cried  in  hurried  speech: 
"  Elpenor,  how  art  thou  come  to  this  dark  coast? 
Cam'st  thou  a-foot,  outstripping  seamen?" 

And  he  in  heavy  speech: 
"  111  fate   and  abundant  wine !     I  slept  in   Circe's 

ingle, 
Going    down    the    long    ladder    unguarded,    I    fell 

against  the  buttress, 

Shattered  the  nape-nerve,  the  soul  sought  Avernus. 
But  thou,  O  King,  I  bid  remember  me,  unwept,  un- 

buried, 
Heap  up  mine   arms,   be  tomb  by  sea-board, 

inscribed: 

'  A  man  of  no  fortune  and  with  a  name  to  come. 
And  set  my  oar  up,  that  I  swung  mid  fellows." 

Came  then  another  ghost,  whom  I  beat  off,  Anticlea, 
And  then  Tiresias,  Theban, 


200 


Holding  his  golden  wand,  knew  me  and  spoke  first: 
"  Man  of  ill  hour,  why  come  a  second  time, 
Leaving  the  sunlight,  facing  the  sunless  dead,  and 

this  joyless  region? 
Stand   from   the   fosse,   move  back,   leave   me   my 

bloody  bever, 
And  I  will  speak  you  true  speeches." 

And  I  stepped  back, 
Sheathing  the  yellow  sword.     Dark  blood  he  drank 

then, 

And  spoke:     "  Lustrous  Odysseus 
Shalt  return  through  spiteful  Neptune,  over  dark 

seas, 
Lose  all  companions."     Foretold  me  the  ways  and 

the  signs. 

Came  then  Anticlea,  to  whom  I  answered: 
"  Fate  drives  me  on  through  these  deeps.     I  sought 

Tiresias," 

Told  her  the  news  of  Troy.     And  thrice  her  shadow 

Faded  in  my  embrace. 


Lie  quiet  Divus.     Then  had  he  news  of  many  faded 

women, 

Tyro,  Alcmena,  Chloris, 

Heard  out  their  tales  by  that  dark  fosse,  and  sailed 
By  sirens  and  thence  outward  and  away, 


201 


And  unto  Circe.     Buried  Elpenor's  corpse. 
Lie  quiet  Divus,  plucked  from  a  Paris  stall 
With  a  certain  Cretan's  "  Hymni  Deorum  " ; 
The  thin  clear  Tuscan  stuff 

Gives  way  before  the  florid  mellow 

phrase, 

Take  we  the  goddess,  Venerandam 
Auream  coronam  habentem,  pulchram.  .  .  . 
Cypri  munimenta  sortita  est,  maritime, 
Light  on  the  foam,  breathed  on  by  Zephyrs 
And    air-tending   Hours,    mirthful,    orichalci,    with 

golden 

Girdles  and  breast  bands,  Thou  with  dark  eyelids, 
Bearing  the  golden  bough  of  Argicida. 

END    OF    THREE    CANTOS 


END 


2O2 


v- 


